Price 25ct
THE
f Devil’8 Daughter,
BY
Robt Edgar l^ufsey.
“And so it came about, that the Devil be-
came the father of a daug-hter ; thoug-h the king-
had her killed immediately after birth; but her
soul still lives, and the devil calls her Zeldee.”
PZ 3
.L9685
^ BRIDGIERS 5c Z-URSEV,
COPY 1 PUBIylSHERS,
Salisbvirjr, ST. C-
Tnth Job Print, Salisbury, N. C.
/
I
THE
DEVIL’S Dauchter,
. BY
Robt Edgar Liifsey.
“And so it came about, that the Devil be-
came the father of a daughter ; though the king
had her killed immediately after birth; but her
soul still lives, and the devil calls her Zeldee.”
BRIDGETS Sc I-'U'r'SE'Sr.
PUBLISHERS,
Salisb-u.ry, U- C-
\ 2B«4
Copyrig-ht, 1898,
by
Whitney IvUTher Bridgers and Robert Edgar Eufsey.
\N
(( Abu-^ tSB ;
vs. A I-VV* A'
of
J^copjeis licisWl '
\ v A
COISTTENTS
PART ONE.
The Living Dead.
PAGE.
Chapter I. — A Stormy Nig-ht, - - - 7
“ II. — Marcus Anthoin, - - - - 11
“ III. — The Story Beg’ins, - - - 16
“ IV. — The Devil’s Pit, - - - 22
“ V. — The Rush of Souls, - - - 27
“ VI.— Hades, - - - - - 33
“ VII.— Zeldee, 37
“ VIII. — Interlocution, - - - 46
PART TWO.
Zeldee’s Revenge.
“ I. — From Out the Noose, - - - 50
“ II. — Woman’s love and Woman’s wits, 55
“ III.— A Royal Flush, - - - 64
“ IV. — A Voice in the Dark, - - 69
V. — The Comedy of Hearts, - - 73
“ VI. — The Play goes on, - - - 86
“ VH. — In Zeldee’s Power, - - 92
PART THREE.
The Phieosopher’s Stone.
“ I. — The American’s Palace, - - 96
“ H. — The Daug-hter of Merideth Kline, 104
“ HI.— Fun and Folly, - - - 109
“ IV. — Retribution, - . - - 113
“ V. — Lost, The Philosopher’s Stone, 117
“ VI. — Saved From the Pit, - - 122
PART FOUR.
Two yEARS After. ^
“ The Death of Marcus Anthoin, - 131
“ Zeldee, the Devil’s Daug-hter, - - 136
PUBLISHERS’ NOTE.
Being- aware of several errors in this, the first
edition of Zeldee, and not wishing- to enumerate
them, as some of our readers may overlook them, if
we do not, we respectfully ask those, who are
capable of finding the errors, to correct them for
themselves; and to those, who do not find them,
there is no harm done. The Publisheks.
PRE]B"^CE
There is a class of people, supposed to be reli-
g’ious, who hold the name of “Devil” in reverence
and awe; but, who would not hesitate to tell a joke
in which the name of God was lightly used. These
people will place their hands before their faces and
cry, “For shame,” if they should chance to read
“Zeldee.”
This same class of people, and most of them
are women, old fogies who delight in getting to-
gether and defaming their lady friends, and who
usually tell some very questionable jokes before
separating at which all laugh heartily, will be
shocked at what they will term, “The Indecencies
of the Story.” To these people I wish to say a few
words: “Kvil is evil to him that evil thinketh.”
If you can not read of Zeldee, and the other char-
acters of my story without having unclean thoughts
take the advice of the author and never read your
Bible, only, when some friend, who is more pure in
mind than you, has obliterated several passages,
chapters and even books, that to read them would
make you sin.”
And now a few words to my intelligent readers.
I have changed the alleged power of the mythical
Philosopher’s Stone to suit my story. I have made
6 ZEI^DEE, the devie’s daughter.
two of my characters remarkable hypnotists; I have
displayed United States senators as sharpers; and I
have, perhaps, over-drawn the picture of the Ameri-
can, who prefered France to his own country; but it
has all been done to add interest. I have intro-
duced sophistical reasoning' for effect, only; but as
to the repeated use or transmig-ration of souls, the
belief in this is being adopted by some of the brain-
iest men of to-day. So would pigmies, like you and
I, dare to say it is not true?
Robt. Edgar Lufsey.
Salisbury, N, C., June, 1898,
ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DADGHTER
I
PART ONE.
THE LIVING DEAD.
CHAPTER 1.
JL UiaKT-
“My stars! what a night,” said the doctor,
shivering and turning up his coat collar so as to
protect his ears from the cutting wind. “It is a lit
one for the devil to come forth to cool his parched
bones and lure unfortunate beings into the warmth
of his infernal region.”
“Yes,” replied the preacher, stamping his feet,
and looking wonderingly at the doctor, as the latter
was known to be an unbeliever. “It is a rough
night; but I do not think I’d like to accompan}^ Old
Nick to his kingdom for all of its warmth.”
“It couldn’t be much more disagreeable than
this,” growled the doctor, shoving his hands further
into his over coat pockets. “Bah! I’m frozen
through and through.”
The “Sunny South” had belied its name and
the snow had fallen all day and was still falling.
Not in the heavy, large flakes of the morning but
8
ZEI.DEE, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
in blinding- sheets of fine mist, driven along by the
fierce wind that had now shifted to the North, and
seemed to come direct from the “North Pole.”
There were few living beings on the Birmingham
streets; the hackmen had disappeared and their
hacks and horses with them; the boot-blacks and
news-boys were gone with their cries of “Shine,”
and “Evening News,” and even the policeman had
sought the shelter of neighboring saloons. The
doctor and preacher alone kept the streets from
being entirely deserted, that is as far as they could
see.
Dr. William Anderson had just arrived on a
belated train, and he and his friend the Rev. George
Holland were standing at the corner of Morris
Avenue and Twentieth street waiting for an electric
car that would take them within a block of the
latter’s home. But no car came, for the simple rea-
son, they had been snow-bound two hours before.
“Well Doc,” finally said the preacher, no car
will come, I reckon, so I suppose we will have to put
up at a hotel or get a hack to take us home.”
“The hack will be best,” replied the doctor, “as
your wife will be uneasy if you don’t get home to-
night.”
“Yes I expect she will, so come along, there are
no hacks upon the street, we will have to go to a
stable.” The preacher led the way, trudging
through the snow, to the nearest livery stable. But
alas! no horse would be let to go out on such a
night.
“Let us walk,” said the doctor.
“What, walk two miles in a blizzard like this?”"
asked Holland, while a shiver ran through his frame
ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
9
at the thought of it.
The doctor replied, with a laugh, “Why not ?
it’s rough I admit; but, walking will warm us, and
besides we can’t spend the night in the street. It
won't do to go to a hotel either, as your wife will
be waiting for you; and two stout fellows like you
and I ought to be able to walk two miles.”
The preacher yielded reluctantly and the two
began the disagreeable tramp. Any one, who has
walked far in a deep snow, knows what they had to
endure. The distance was only two miles; but it
seemed ten ere they had gone half the way. Try
as they would to go fast, they made but slow pro-
gress. The fierce wind was biting cold and the fine
snow blinded them so they could scarcely see the
way. Finally the preacher stopped.
“lean go no further,” he said, “I am tired out,
and we have only come half way.” And he puffed
and blowed; while perspiration dropped from his
brow, which froze as it fell.
They were in a solitary part of the town where
but few houses had been erected, and the one near-
est them was at least a hundred yards away. The
doctor had stopped a few paces from his friend,
and like him, was puffing and blowing like a steam
engine.
“That’s the longest mile I ever walked in my
life. By George, if I believe I can go any further
either! Suppose we test the hospitality of the peo-
ple at this house. They can’t well take us for
tramps and if they do, I don’t think they would
turn us out in a night like this — and besides, you
may know them.”
“I hardly think I know them,” responded his
10
ZELDKE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
companion, “but like you I think it best to ask them
to take us in for the nig-ht. My wife will be very
anxious I know; but it can’t be helped.”
Anderson had already started toward the house
and Holland followed. Trying- the front g'ate they
found it would not open, owing to the snow being
banked around it; but, nothing daunted, the two
men got over the fence, went up the slippery steps
with care and were about to ring the bell when the
door was suddenly opened by a woman, apparently
seventy years of age. She stood there shading
with one hand a lamp, which she held in the other
to keep the wind from extinguishing the feeble
flame.
“Come in gentlemen,” she said, without wait-
ing for them to speak. “We’ve been looking for
you for an hour or more.”
“Impossible,” said the doctor, who took upon
himself the part of spokesman, “you make a mis-
take. We, ourselves, did not know we were com-
ing here until a few moments ago, when we could
proceed no further in the wind and snow.”
“I know you did not know it,” rejoined the
woman with a slight smile, but I knew it Dr. An-
derson, and you Mr. Holland, don’t worry about
your wife she has ceased to worry about you, think-
ing you must have gone to a hotel. She and your
little boy, Willie, have retired long before this. So
come right in my husband is waiting impatiently to
see you.’
The men were startled when their names were
called. How did this woman, whom they had never
seen before, know their names? How could she
speak so positively of Holland’s wife and child?
ZELDEE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER.
11
Surely she could not have been to his home that
nig'ht. These were their thoug’hts and they were
about to question her when she repeated, “Come
rig-ht in my husband is waiting-.”
Kxchang-hig- a look the men entered; they could
not remain on the outside in the storm, and the
woman closed and locked the door. Then holding-
her dress with one hand and the lamp with the
other she mounted the stair followed by the be-
wildered doctor and preacher.
CHAPTER II.
2^.a.RCT7S iLITTXXOZZr.
Shakespeare, perhaps, had fore-seen this time
when he put the words in the mouth of Hamlet,
“There are more thing-s in Heaven and Earth,
Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosphy.”
Here was a woman with nothing- to disting-uish her,
in looks, from other withered crones of her ag-e,
except, a pair of extremely brig-ht eyes, (but such
eyes, black and piercing-; eyes that seemed to g-o
throug-h one and read his innermost thoughts) who
could call men, she had never seen before, by their
names and tell them of their families.
Anderson, who was something of a hypnotist,
experienced a strange sensation when he looked into
the woman’s eyes, like he supposed his subjects felt
when being hypnotized, and Holland too felt a chill
pass over him, a chill different from that caused by
12
ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
the wintery air, when he saw those piercings black
orbs turned toward his face.
But these unusual feeling’s did not deter them
from following her, though they instinctively drew
closer to each other. At the head of the stairs the
woman turned to the right and walked along the
passage a short distance until she came to a door;
opening this, she said, “Walk in gentleman.”
At the same time, a thin, squeaking voice call-
ed from the room, “Come in, come in, don’t stop,
the hour I have waited seems like an age, and still
you creep.” The doctor’s face turned pale and the
preacher’s hair seemed to stand on end; and each
man took a step backward as though he would run.
If the woman had witch’s eyes the man had a
demon’s voice. Noticing their alarm the woman
laughed — a strange wierd laugh — and said, “Come
sirs, there is nothing to fear, we may be queer souls,
but we will not hurt you. Come.” Not daring to
raise their eyes to hers, the men now followed. In
the room they found a little, old, weazen-faced
man lying on a bed in a corner. He was glaring
at them by the feeble light furnished by the lamp
the woman had placed on a table in the center of
room. Glaring at them, we repeat, with a look of
exultant joy.
“Oh! you’re here at last,” he began again in
that same demonish voice, “It seemed you’d never
come. You see gentlemen I wish to tell you of my
past life, or, as you may think afterward, of my
death.”
The preacher looked more frightened than ever,
but the doctor had regained his composure; for, he
thought he saw before him a delirious victim of
ZKI.DKE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER.
13
fever.
“I see! I see!” he said turning- to the woman,
“How long- has he beenlike this?” He was startled
ag-ain and the preacher’s face was livid, for peal
after peal of laug-hter from both the man and woman
followed the querr^L Hellish laug-hter, laug-hter
such as fiends are supposed to laugh over their vic-
tims; but it ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
‘ ‘Excuse us, ” said the old man to Anderson, ‘ ‘But,
just before you came I said to my wife, that, you
would think I was a deliriously sick man, and want
to doctor me. I may be sick, but all your medicine
doctor, would not cure me.” Then noticing their
alarm he continued, “Don’t be frightened gentle-
men, several things may seem strange and unnatur-
al, but after a while you’ll understand why. My
name is Marcus Anthoin and that is my wife,”
pointing to the woman. “You are known to us Dr.
Anderson; Baltimore is not so far away from Bir-
mingham but that we have heard of you and your
wonderful cures combined with your powers as a
hypnotist.”
“Really sir,” began Anderson, who was feeling
more at ease as he became accustomed to the man’s
voice. “You do me — ”
“Tut! tut!” broke in the old man, “I know
what you would say, ‘too much honor,’ and all that:
but its just as I say, we have heard of you, honor or
no honor. And of you too sir,” turning to Holland,
•“You are a servant of the Lord, may you prosper in
y^our work.” As he said this, his voice lost its
demon’s accent, and dropped into a full, mellow
tone; only to go back to its high, shrill pitch when
he opoke again. “You are one of the few he has
14
ZELDKE, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
left. There are many called such, but most of them
serve mammon instead.”
A g-runt from the woman followed this speech.
“You are a fine one to talk on such matters,” she
said in a sarcastic manner. “Please do not do so
again, my ears are paining me now.”
“Then Antonette, you had better go into the
adjoining room and retire,” said the man Anthoin.
“If you remain here I am afraid your ears will be
pained several times. If we need you we will call
you.
There was a command in his voice that was
not implied by his words. The woman colored
deeply, and seemed to regret the hastily spoken,
satirical words, but, yet she answered in a quiet
voice, “Very well Marcus.” And then to the others,
“If you gentlemen will excuse me I will retire.”
The doctor and preacher were only too glad to
have her out of the room and hastened to say so,
only in a polite way.
“Gentleman,” said Marcus Anthoin, when his
wife had left the room, “You must excuse me for
two things; first, my sending my wife out of the
room; and second, my troubling you to listen to a
narrative that does not concern you. My excuse for
the first is, she was the cause of my debasement,
and I have been debased gentlemen, oh! more than
you can imagine, but I did not wish to pain her as
a true recital of my story might do. Yes doctor,”
he continued as he noticed Anderson’s eyes turned
toward the door by which the woman had left. “She
may listen there and hear what I say, but if she
does, it is her fault, not mine; and besides she may
not be as susceptible to pain as I suppose. My ex-
ZELDKE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
15
cuse or plea for the second is, the overwhelming-
burden of a secret.”
As he talked his voice softened until it sank to
the full, mellow tones we have before mentioned.
“If either of you have ever had a g-reat secret, you
know what a burden it is to the soul. Althoug-h
my story does not concern you, it will prove inter-
esting-, and will afford you food for new thoug-ht.
Still, if you would rather not listen to it, I will re-
call my wife, and have you shown to a room, where
you can pass the nig-ht and g-o your way in the
morning-.” He paused and g-azed wistfully at the
two men; then as they hesitated he added, “To re-
lieve my soul of its weig-ht would be raising- it from
its thrall of deg-radation. With this secret burden-
ing- my heart, I cannot live a month long-er; but
with the secret removed I might have a few years
more on earth.”
Hesitating no more, the preacher at once an-
nounced his willingness to listen to the tale; while
Anderson, who was ever willing to hear anything
wierd and strange, as he supposed the story would
be, and who had hesitated only out of deference to
his friend’s feelings, assured the queer old man that
nothing would please him more.
But little did he think what effect that recital
would have upon his life; and in what way or where
he would meet the reciter again.
16
2KLDEK, the PEVIT’S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER III.
THE STORY EEGIITS.
The wind blew more fiercely than ever; it rat-
tled the windows, and howled about the house like
demons trying- to force an entrance to prevent the
old man from divulging- his secret.
The snow beat against the window pains, mak-
ing a dismal sound; the fire in the grate had burned
low; and a clock, in another part of the house, had
just struck the hour of twelve; when Marcus An-
thoin opened his eyes. He had been lying with
them closed for five or ten minutes, as though try-
ing to recall all of the important events of that past
life, which he was now about to trust to mortal
ears, for the first time. The two friends had re-
frained from disturbing his revery, but sat there,
looking silently at him with something like a pity-
ing expression upon each face.
Anthoin raised himself in bed as he opened his
eyes, and propping himself with a pillow, said, “If
one of you will be so kind as to replenish the fire,,
I will begin.”
Holland arose immediately and filled the grate
with coal, and, then returned to his seat, sa3fing- as
he did so, “Very well Mr. Anthoin we are read}- to
listen.”
“Yes proceed,” said Anderson, without taking
his eyes from the old man’s face.
Settleing himself more comfortably against his
pillow; and turning his small gray eyes toward his,
ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
17
audience of two, Anthoin began: “Thirty years or
so ago, a man was seated by the fire in his room,
listening to the wind howling about the house.
’Twas just such a night as this, the snow was fall-
ing, and to add to the dismalness of the night a
bow of a tree out-side his window kept tapping
upon the window pane. That man was myself —
Merideth Kline. I had just passed my twent^^-fifth
birthday; and having enough of this world’s goods
to live a life of idleness, I proceeded forth-with to
do so. Like other young men of that age, I don’t
mean all 3^oung men, I was a skeptic. Hell to me
was a myth; the miracles of Christ were illusions;
the lives of the prophets were traditions, nothing
more; preachers were hypocrites; and those who
went to hear them preach were fools. I would have
liked to have added in my agnosticism, “There is
no God,” but I could not bring myself to believe
that. Everything pointed to a Being of Suprem-
acy. There must have been something to fashion
this world, and the others we see at night.
The philospher might write of evolution ; and
the materialist might talk of the world having ex-
isted forever, and this earth, a small portion of it,
being formed by heat; but, call it heat or call it
God, there was Supremacy somewhere, and because
my mother had called it so, I chose to call that Su-
premacy, “God.”
“My father was a Lutheran minister and had
a large charge. My mother was a Metheodist be-
fore her marriage, but united with the Lutheran
church afterward. She was a good woman, and
used all the means in her power to bring me up in
the fear of the Lord and make me a believer in
18
ZEI.DKE, the devil’s daughter.
Christianity; but like many other g-ood people, then
and now, she made the mistake of confounding- fear
and love. If God was the kind, loving Father she
said he was, why should we fear Him ? Thus I
reasoned, even when a very small child. As to
Christianity, Wasn’t my father a Christian? And
yet I couldn’t believe in his piety. He talked very
nice in the pulpit, but he talked quite differently at
home. Several times I’d seen him very much under
the influence of alcoholic drinks; though, at these
times he kept himself close in his study. Many a
time when a youngster, I have hidden behind his-
book-case to listen to his musings, for he had a
habit of talking aloud to himself, there I would
hear things which, though I would not repeat, I
would store away in my mind and ponder over.
“I learned in this way that he was not con-
sistant in anything. He believed in a God in a
vague way; but a life after death, and especially a
life in a fiery hell, to him was bosh, although his
best sermons were preached upon this theme.
“Is it any wonder, then; that as I grew into
3"oung manhood, I should be a doubter ?
“I studied law, and succeeded fairly well in
my profession. Besides being an agnostic and a
lawyer, I was nearly a woman hater. I see you
smile. It was the same old story of ‘blue eyes and
sunny curls;’ a few short hours of happy love and
then she loved another. I never cared for woman’s
society after that — except my mother’s; but she died
soon after. My father had died two years before.
“After her death I occupied the old house that
had come to me by inheritance. And this brings
me back to the point where I started, when I sat in
ZKIvDKE, the devie’s daughter.
19
my room on such a nig-ht as this, and listened to
the wind, the snow and the old dead branch tapping*
upon the window. Doctor will you please hand
me that coug*h medicine that is on the mantle? I
am getting hoarse.”
Anderson got the medicine for Anthoin, who
thanked him and continued with his story.
“Tap, tap. I can almost here that old branch
tapping at the window now. Tap, tap. I was
reading Kdgar Allen Poe’s poem, ‘The Raven.’ I
could almost recite it from memory, but still I was
reading it, as I often did. It seemed to appeal
more to my feelings when reading it, than when
reciting it. When I came to the lines,
“Surely,’ said I. ‘Surely that is
Something at my window lattice.’ ’
“I half arose from my chair to go to my window,
to see if a raven was tapping there or not; but,
‘No,’ said I, ‘It is that old, dead branch.’ And so I
went on with the poem, and dwelt musingly on the
lines,
‘On the morrow he will leave me
As my friends have done before.’
You see I had a meloncholy disposition, and liked
anything with a sad thought expressed. I read the
poem to the end; and then leaned back in my chair
to think of what is contained in the word ‘Never-
more.’ Ah! what a word, even to me, now that I
know it is almost meaningless, it seems full of
pain.
“How long I sat there I do not know. It
seemed as though I slept; yet, all the time I heard
that old branch, beating a sad refrain upon the win-
dow; and the wind howling mournfully about the
20
ZELDKE, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
house. I had a dream and in that dream I saw a
woman. She came and stood before me, in the room
where I was sitting-; for I was still conscious of
where I was. She had a small jeweled spear in her
hand which she shook playfully at me, saying- as
she did so, ‘You are mine, do you know that?
Merideth I say you are mine.’ And then she
laug-hed a peculiar laug-h. ‘Do you know what
love is?’ she continued. ‘Yes, I know you do; but
you will soon forg-et, that is, that other love. You
will learn to love me as I love you. Did you know
I loved you? I am as pretty as that other, am I
not ? Her weak, blue eyes and lig-ht colorless hair
can’t compare with my eyes and hair.’ And indeed
they could not. Such hair as hers I had never seen
before, as I could remember: black and full a yard
long-, falling- over her shoulders — bare shoulders,
gleaming- white in the fire-light. Her only dress
was a bit of white material, almost transparent,
fastened around the waist and hanging only half way
to her knees. Her hands and feet were small,
‘Dainty hands and feet,’ a poet would have called
them. Her perfectly formed limbs were smooth and
white as alabaster. Her face was perfect in ever}’
feature, from her intellectual forehead to her beau-
tifully molded chin. Such a face a man is not likely
to forget, but I forgot it as soon as I awoke, only
her eyes remained clear of all her beauty — her love-
ly hair, her marble like brow, her ruby lips and
pearly teeth, her swan like breast, her tiny hands,
with the jewel spear, her graceful limbs and sculp-
tured feet, all, were forgotten. Her eyes alone re-
mained. You’ve seen those eyes to-night gentle-
men; but not as I saw them then; eyes as black as
ZEIvDKK, THE devil’s daughter. 21
the blackest nig-ht; eyes that pierced into my brain;
e3’^es that seemed to laug-h and talk and dance; e^^es
that held me spell-bound. I could still hear her
voice, thoug^h, with its musical cadence, not that it
was always musical; she was sa}ring-, ‘You are mine
I say; if not you shall be;’ and other thing's similar
to that. When I awoke the fire had burned out
and the lig-ht was g-etting- low. I retired and tried
to sleep; but for a long* time I could not. Those
black eyes haunted me; finally I dropped into un-
easy slumber, and then ag'ain I saw that woman,
and trembled in my sleep. As before her eyes out-
weig'hed the other charms; and she seemed to know
it, and made them sink deeper and deeper into my
brain. I never have been the same since that
nig'ht. Throug'h all these years those e^^es have
been before me. Go where I would I seemed to be
following- those eyes. Thej^ were not alwa^^s the
same; some times, instead of being black, they were
blue, or g'ra}^ or brown; sometimes they were soft,
laughing eyes; then again they were cold, stern
ones; but they have always had the power, until
tonight, to make me come or go as their owner
wished. How I have escaped from their influence
you shall hear after awhile. Thus you see m\'
whole life has been wrecked by a dream.
“Dreams are what wis2-acres call, ‘passing
thoughts.’ Dreams are what you and others laug'h
at, as fancies of the brain. Dreams are what
philosophers say, ‘Is the mind unburdening itself.’
Wrong, all of 3"ou are wrong. A dream is the soul
being awake, while the body sleeps. You ma3" as
well tell me, that, ‘The bee is not working because
the hive does not move,’ as to tell me, ‘Dreams are
22
ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
not realities because the body sleeps/ Have you
ever in your dreams, seen places that seem perfect-
ly familiar ? You remember the dream when you
awake, but cannot remember when or where you
ever saw that place, and yet, you have seen it, at
least, your soul has, and in your dream it goes back
to it again. The soul can see the past, the present
and the future. It is what the soul sees and does
that we call dreams.”
Anderson and Holland were interested, and ask-
ed many questions concerning dreams, to which the
old man replied, proving by his answers that dreams
belong to the soul. It was an old subject with him,
and although the two friends tried to trap him on
some of his answers; they failed to do so.
If the man was a lunatic as they thought at
times; he was one that was more than a match for
them in an argument — on dreams any-way.
CHAPTER IV.
THE 3DEVII-’’S PIT.
“Continue with your story” said Anderson.
“I am anxious to hear more of it.” Holland drew
his chair nearer the fire, nodding to Anthoin as he
did so, “Yes, go on with your tale. Tell us more
about those wonderful eyes.”
“There is so much I could tell,” responded he,
“That I hardly know what to tell. But I’ll pass
over two years — years of torture; for those e)’'es
ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK.
23
were ever before me, nearly making- me craz3^ i
could scarcely sleep; and when I did, there was that
beautiful creature with her maddening- e3'es; and
she was always telling- me how she loved me; until,
instead of loving- her as she said I would, I abhored
her. “I lost my appetite, barely eating- enoug-h to
keep alive. I beg-an to decrease in weig-ht until I
was but a shadow of my former self. Of course I
consulted a doctor; but I was ashamed to tell him
of my vision, as I chose to call the woman of my
dreams, so he was left in ig-norance of the root of
my disease. He no doubt attributed it to dissipa-
tion; and advised me to leave home and travel
abroad for awhile. Sending- me from wild associ-
ates I suppose he thoug-ht. I took his advice how-
ever, and left home. I never returned.
One nig-ht I was sitting- in the common room
of a hotel in a small villag-e in Austria, I had been
there a week for I liked the place, there bein^ sev-
eral Kng-lish speaking- people there, when I heard
some one mention a pit known as the ‘Devil’s Pit,’
into which no one could look without having- a de-
sire—an almost uncontrolable desire— to throw him-
self into it. It was not far from there, they said.
Other travelers besides myself, were stopping- at
the hotel; and a party was quickly formed to visit
the pit on the following- day. Two g^uides were
secured, one of whom could speak Bng-lish and the
other French, as there was to be both French and
Fng-lish in the party.
“On the following- morning we started earl^^
for our rough tramp in the mountains. But little
did I think, that, after I saw the ‘Devil’s Pit,’ Meri-
deth Kline would be known on earth no more.
24
ZKIvDEE, the DEVIE’S daughter.
“I felt remarkably well that day; thenig'lit be-
fore being- the only night, for over two years, that
I had passed without a dream. Those eyes had
ceased to haunt me as soon as I retired the evening
before, and I slept a sound peaceful sleep all
through the night. My companions that morning
were in high spirits, laughing and joking as we
marched along; and I joined with them, which sur-
prised them somewhat I suppose; for during the
short stay I had made in the town I had been ver}’
morose. But now it was different. Those lovely,
though distracting eyes, had not returned with the
morning; and I felt like a man escaped from prison:
I felt free; but, oh! so afraid of being fettered
again. Determining to make the best of an}"
liberty, however, I chatted merrily with the rest.
“ ‘Well Balto,’ said one of my companions to
our guide who spoke English, ‘We want to know
if this Devil’s Pit is very deep and if it has a lake
at the bottom, burning with fire and brimstone?’
“ ‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed a Frenchman. ‘If his
Satanic majesty is at the bottom of the pit, I don’t
want to go too near it.’
“ ‘Oh! Frenchy, Frenchy,’ cried a gay, rollick-
ing Englishman, g'iving him the appellation ap-
plied to so many Frenchmen. ‘I should have
thought you was an infidel. Most of your country-
men are.’
“ ‘That is a great mistake,’ replied the other.
‘The most of us may be skeptics, but not infidels,
as you mean, atheist. Some Frenchmen are, I am
sorry to say; but I am not. I am confident there is
a God. Have I not seen His works here and else-
where? ’ And he looked about over the surround-
ZELDEE, the DEVIE’vS DAUGHTER.
25
ing- country.
“I took it upon myself to answer. ‘Undoubt-
ly it is God’s work; but, do you also believe in a
devil ? ’
“ ‘Certainly,’ and he looked surprised. ‘To
believe in one is to believe in the other.’
“ ‘Neg-atoire,’ I said. ‘Now I believe in a su-
preme being- , God; but in the other I do not. The
devil’s a myth and hell’s a fraud. But Balto hasn’t
answered our friends’ questions. Is the pit deep;
is there lire at the bottom; and, can you hear the
clank of the devil’s chains? Kh, Balto?’
“I heard him reply, that, the pit was very
deep; that he’d never heard of any fire in it; and
that, if the devil was there, the rattle of his chains
could not be heard; but it sounded to me, as thoug-h
he was a long- way off; for those tormenting- eyes
had returned with ten-fold power exactly at the
moment I had said, ‘The devil’s a myth and hell’s a
fraud.’
“I needed no g-uide now; those eyes were g-uides
enoug-h. They served to lead me irresistibly for-
ward ; as I advanced they retreated, I soon took
the lead of the party. My actions appeared strang-e
to my companions I know, I heard them comment-
ing- upon them; but I had lost my power of speech
soon after those eyes returned. But would I have
explained if I could have spoken ? I doubt it. For
who likes to display their infirmities to mortal
eyes ? I looked then upon those vision eyes as an
infirmity.
“The day had lost all charm for me. The
brig-ht, blue sky, the distant mountain peaks so
dazzling- white as the sun shone upon their snowy
26
ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
crest; the hug-e boulders that here and there over-
hung- the mountain road on which we traveled; the
hardy, little mountain song-sters warbling- their
lays as they flew past or calling- to their mates in
the shrubbery; the vultures and the noble eag-le
soaring far above us; were unnoticed by me then,
although I had admired them so much before.
Nothing but those eyes were visible. I walked as
one who slept. On and on, following those eyes;
on and on, over the rough mountain road; and leav-
ing that behind, on and on, up a steep mountain path
— climbing and scrambling; onward and upward.
Finally immerging on a small plateau I turned to
my left, because the eyes did so. I had been get-
ting farther ahejjd of my companions all the time.
I realized it; but what mattered that, if I kept up
with the eyes that led me?
“I was half way across the plateau when my
friends arrived upon it. In a vague way I knew
they were calling me, and running after me at full
speed; but at the same time I was seized with an
uncontrollable desire to catch those eyes or the
owner of them and began to run also, increasing
my speed to my uttermost. Once I tripped and fell
and when I regained my feet my pursuers were near-
ly up with me, and those eyes were farther away;
then I ran faster than ever. I heard my friend call,
‘Stop! stop!’ and the guide cry, ‘The Devil’s Pit
sir! the Devil’s Pit!’ but faster I ran. Then the
eyes vanished. I was in space, falling, falling.
The eyes were gone and I was lost. I realized it,
and grasped wildly at the rocks as I flew by.
’Twas the Devil’s Pit I knew. The devil had claim-
ed his victim at last; and I was the victim.
ZKLDKE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER.
27
CHAPTER V.
THE RTTSK OE SOT7I-S-
“Did you ever dream of falling-, and, then,
when you struck the earth, which you thoug-ht
would be the end of you, be surprised that you still
lived and then continue to dream ? If you have,
you no doubt have an idea of how I felt while fall-
ing- into the Devil’s Pit.
“Down, down, down, g-aining- velocity at every
moment. I could see the hard, smooth bottom; I
closed my eyes; and then I struck; but I felt no
pain. I beg-an to rise out of the pit. I was not
flying- for I had no wing-s; and yet I was rising-, I
was resting- on nothing-, I seemed as lig-ht as air.
Upon reaching- the surface of the earth I saw my
friends g-azing- into the depths below, and heard
one of them say, ‘Poor felow, he must have g-one
crazy,’ and another added, ‘I never have thoug-ht he
was exactly rig-ht.’ I knew they thoug-ht my
actions were strang-e so did not take offence at what
they said. I spoke kindly to them, and told them
that I was not dead, but they appeared not to see
or hear me. I was a litttle piqued at this. Then
it slowly dawned upon me that I was dead, at least
my body was, and this was my soul; that I could
see and hear them, but they could not see or hear
me. I looked back into the pit, and there was the
form of a man lying- at the bottom. I had no
doubt that it was my body. Another thing- that
surprised me was, that before my fall I could not
28
ZELDKK, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTEK,
understand the Frenchmen or Austrians when
speaking- in their native tong-ues; but now I could,
not only understand, but could speak in either of
them. Just then I heard a sound, like one often
hears before a mig-hty wind reaches us. Before
this it seemed as though I was waiting for some-
thing, I did not know what; now I seemed to
know, that what caused this noise, was what I was
waiting for. Suddenly I began to move, from no
exertion or will of mine, gradually at first and
then faster and faster. The last I saw of my
late companions was, when they were slowly turn-
ing away from the Devil’s Pit. I watched them
as I swept along until they appeared to be mere
specks in the distance; and then faded from view.
“I was not touching the earth; but like a
feather, was carried through the air a few yards
above; sometimes rising to pass a mountain, then
dipping down into a valley; always speeding on-
ward. I did not feel frightened; I remembered hav-
ing gone through it all several times before. I
was no agnostic then, I surmised nothing, I knew
it all. I remembered the first time I had made that
journey, when Cain had killed my body, and my soul
had rushed on not knowing whither it went. Abel
had been the name of my mortal frame; but what
would be the name of my soul? And oh ! how frighten-
ed I had been. I laughed then as I thought of it. I
remembered all of the bodies I had inhabited; and
knew I had power to resemble any of them or be a
composite of several. I also knew I had power to
speak and understand any language, as I had done
several times. I knew again that, when the soul
dies as it sometimes does; for God has said, ‘The
ZElvDEK, the DEVIE’S daughter.
29
soul that sinneth, it shall die,’ it would have no
power whatever, but would go to hell, and have to
remain there ever-more; but as long as the soul
lived it would be given a new body, and have an-
other season on earth, and that it would have lo re-
main in the body except when the body slept, and
then it was permitted to roam about, and leave it
until the body awoke.
“You gentlemen do not understand these
things, but I will answer any questions concerning
them that 3"ou may ask, after I am through with my
narrative.
“Well, to proceed. My soul continued to in-
crease in speed until it reached the main channel
of souls, this is the channel that leads to the other
world as you call it. There I went bowling along
at I dare say several hundred miles an hour. There
were many other souls in the channel besides myself
— weak, puny souls, that I knew were dead and mak-
ing the journey for the last time; there were good
souls and bad souls, what I mean by bad souls, are
those who were cut off by accident, before their
alotted time on earth, cut off in their sinfulness.
I was of these. The farther I traveled the more
souls there were, jostling and crowding each other;
pushing and shoving; rolling and tossing; each one
drawn along by that irresistible power.
“Over the mountains, we went and through
the valleys; sweeping through village or town or
city; on through Vienna’s streets, catching but a
glimpse of its bustle as we passed; on and on with-
out a stop, without a stay, on ! on ! on ! Leaving
Austria behind we rushed through Bavaria, Wur-
tenburg, Baden and Alsace; through city and vale..
30 ZKLDBK, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
Thence over France; throug-h the proud city Paris;
on to the coast; and then out over the wide expanse
of water. Rushing-, whirring and whizzing; cleav-
ing- the salt sea air. Suddenly there was a pause
and then I began to rise or fall, I could scarcely
tell which, with a rapid movement. Then another
pause and forward I moved ag-ain.”
“Did the other souls move forward with you?”
asked Anderson, who was very much interested in
the tale.
“I know not,” replied Anthoin. “For it had
suddenly become dark as nig-ht, and I felt alone.
The power, that had drawn me on, influenced me
no more. I knew where I was, but it was awful
to be there alone. It was the ‘Valley and the
Shadow of Death.’
“Souls have passed and repassed, but never a
path has been found there. A trackless waste; a
desert bare; a soundless space: no song of g-ladness;
no word of cheer; no hope; no joy; faith nearly
g-one; fear, nothing- but fear; lost, lost, lost; that
is the way the soul feels until it sees the beacon
light, away, in the distance. First a tiny spark
appears which becomes brighter and larg-er, broader
and g-rander, until the g-reat search ray reaches the
soul. Then hope returns.
“I went toward the light as I had done so
many times before; for I knew it was a safe guide,
that would not err. But if I, who was still alive
and vigorous, felt the desolation of the place so
keenly, what must have been the feelings of those
dead souls, passing through the darkness for the
last time; passing never to return, knowing as they
most surely did, that when they passed the gates
ZKLDEK, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
31
of hell, those gates would never open to set them
free again. I — ”
“One moment,” interrupted Holland. “What
do you mean by ‘Those gates would never open to
set them free again’ ? Are not those gates, once
closed upon a soul, closed forever?”
“No indeed Mr. Holland,” replied Anthoin. .
“I know it is so taught by preachers, who claim to
understand the word of God, but it is not so. The
soul that is dead remains in hell forever; but there
are souls there who* have been deprived of their
bodies while yet alive, who when their turn comes
will be sent back to earth to inhabit another
body.”
“Then theosophy is true ?”
“Not at all. Theosophy is the basest kind of
superstition. Souls • are used for several bodies,
but cannot converse with other souls while inmates
of those bodies. Monte-banks, street-fakers and
other would-be-attracters-of-public-attention claim
a belief in theosophy, and claim their ability to
talk with spirits; but like all faker’s tricks, it is a
fraud.”
“Then if souls are used repeatedly, why is it
that we cannot remember what our other bodies
did, and what has happened to the soul, as you re-
member what has happened to yours ?”
“Because you think with your brain, and as it
did not belong to the other bodies, you remember
nothing of them or of the Spirit-land. Some-
times you remember them in your dreams when
vour bodily mind is asleep and your spiritual mind
*It will be noticed that 1 have used the pronoun “that,”
for the dead souL and “who,” for the living. — Author.
32
ZKI.DEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
is awake, and it photographs itself upon the sleep-
ing- mind; but when you awake, you say, ‘It’s noth-
ing- but a dream,’ and you believe it not.
“Then how is it you remember ?” asked the
doctor.
“My bodily mind is dead. I’ll tell you of that
after awhile, and I do my thinking- with the mind
of my soul. I broke away from the soul’s home
and returned to earth without being- commanded.
That will be explained as my story proceeds.”
“Do souls have forms?”
“Yes. But they are invisible to mortal eyes.
A soul can chang-e its form, that is, when out of
the body, to the imag^e of any of the bodies it has
ever had, or to a compound of several of them, but
still it is invisible. This is a leng-thy subject that
could be discussed for hours; but the night is pass-
ing and if I wish to finish my story I must proceed.
Some other time perhaps we will meet and discuss
this subject.”
“Go on by all means,” said the doctor. “Tell
us if you reached that beaconlight; but say! Wasn’t
it on the spirit land?”
“You have guessed correctly. For passing
through the Valley and Shadow of Death, I reach-
ed the guiding light, and found myself at the
mouth of Hades, or upon the Spirit shore.”
ZELDEE, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
33
CHAPTER VI.
“In Roman mytholog’y, Hades is said to be a
larg-e cave, where-in, all departed spirits dwell; the
g-ood ones on the right, and the bad ones on the left.
The idea has been hooted at by philosophers; atheists
have said it was ridiculous; while believers in God,
men who preach the gospel, have laughed at it and
have claimed it was not orthodox enough for them.
And yet this sentiment is more correct, than most
beliefs upon the matter.
“On the farther border of the Valley and
Shadow of Death there arises a perpendicular wall
of rock, extending to right and left, losing itself
on all sides in the darkness. The top is never seen
— or the bottom either for that matter. There is
an opening in the wall like the mouth of a cave;
and in front of this opening is a ledge of rock
where weary souls can rest before entering there
old, yet new abode. Over the entrance are letters,
formed of flaming jewels, spelling the word,
‘hades.’
“Above this word hangs the beacon-light,
sending its rays streaming through the darkness
like an electric search-light. At the entrance
stands the warden-angel, who, to every one who
arrives, gives a permit, or passport, to enter
Hades and on to the home of the soul; good or bad.
The permit reveals, at once, the destiny of the
soul. Very few need it revealed, however, for
34
ZKLDEE, the DEVIE^S DAUGHTER.
each one g-enerally knows where he deserves to g-o;
and knows he will certainly go where he deserves.
But there are some of the dead souls who try to
blind themselves to the fact that they are going to
hell; and when they get their passport they scan
it minutely as though in hopes of it being a per-
mit to enter heaven; but when they read it and
find it is hell for which they are bound, some try
to break past the sentinel, and rush out into the
darkness. But they cannot pass. Others throw
their passports away and hope to get into heaven
some-how; but no one is allowed to pass the Pearly
Gates without one, and all such are cast into hell.
“Although I had lost sight of other souls
while coming through the Valley, there was no
lack of them at the entrance. They were arriv-
ing all the time. I stood back on the ledge of
rock, before passing the warden ang*el, and watch-
ed them come — happy souls, just from a life of
Christian usefulness on earth; joyous souls, singing
sweet refrains; merry souls, laughing and glad to
meet some well remembered friend; weary souls,
having wandered in the “Valley and Shadow of
Death” for years before seeing the guiding rays of
the beacon-light, and then so happy to reach that
shelf of rock and rest; living and dead souls; good
and bad souls; I watched them arrive. I recog-
nized several of them, but they did not observe me
as I was hid in a shadow. Finally I spoke to one
of them. Like me, he still retained the likeness
of his last body — an old playmate of mine when I,
Merideth Kline, was a boy.
“ ‘Henry,’ I called. ‘Henry Thomas.’ He
raised his head, and seeing the angelic look upon
I
ze^ldke, the devie’s daughter.
35
his face I knew his destination was the Holy king--
dom, but, yet I dared to show myself and speak
to him for a moment. Upon my coming out of the
shadow he recognized me, and together we went up
to the angel, received our permits and passed into
the Great Beyond.
“Just inside of the entrance is a broad stair-
way leading down, down, down. If a mortal could
see that stairway how he would long to possess a
part, if, not all of it; for it is of solid gold. Your
greatest imagination cannot conceive of it. Large
slabs of the precious metal form the steps; and each
is engraved in the grandest style — figures of
cherubim and seraphim; chariots drawn by dragons;
animals known and unknown to mortals; birds and
fiowers; and many other beautiful things, designed
in best artistic taste. Kvery fifth step— and there
are over nine thousand — is broader than the others;
and upon these are statues and statuettes of the
most lovely kind, all of it gold, enameled in brilli-
ant colors.
“Although so many souls are arriving all the
time, there is no crowding upon the stair, it is so
wide. My friend and I paused before each statue
to admire and praise; and though, we had seen all
of them several times before, they still seemed new,
such was their loveliness. My friend knew. I’ve
no doubt, my destination; but he said nothing
about it, and loitered along the way with me, ad-
miring this and examining that. Down we went,
step after step, seeing greater beauty as we advanc-
ed, until we reached the bottom, and then there was a
change.
“At the foot of the stair is a long passage.
36
ZKLDKK, THK devil’s daughter.
and, althoug-h the stairs are brilliantly lig-hted, this
passag’e is dark and g'loomy — not black like the
Valley and Shadow of Death, but feebly lig'hted —
g-etting- darker the farther you advance. It is
damp and chilly too.
“Down this passag’e my friend and I walked.
A shiver ran throug-h us as some slimy, crawling-
thing- g-lided past. Great thing's like spiders, only
larger than earthly ones, were crawling on the
walls; snakes and" toads could be seen in the nitches;
blind bats whirled above our heads; and nameless
things — nasty and loathsome, creeped or ran or
flew about us. We hastened on in hopes of pass-
ing the frightful objects; but they became more
numerous and loathsome. We knew they could
not hurt us, but yet we felt a dread of them — such
a dread, that we were glad when we arrived at the
end of the passage. There were two pair of g'ates
there; those on the right made of pearl, and we
knew, that heaven was beyond; and those on the
left made of iron, and we knew that hell was on
the other side of them. We were near our destina-
tion then and we had to part.
“Bidding me farewell with a shake of the
hand, he walked up to the gates of pearl; they
opened and he passed through. For a moment I
caught sight of a gleam of brilliant light and
heard a strain of sweet music; then the gates closed,
and I turned toward the gates of iron. Willingly
would I have fled; but I knew it was useless.
Where could I go? I knew if I attempted to re-
pass the nasty inhabitants of the passage; they
would block my way and my attempt would be in
vain. My fate was decided for me and I must
ZEIvDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
37
yield.
“Quickly g’oing- to the g-ates before my courag'e
failed, they opened, and I passed into the howling-
clamor of the Hell of Souls,
CHAPTER VII.
“You have heard much talk of hell; but if you
should chance to g-o there you’d be g-reatly sur-
prised. You have been taug-ht, that it was a lake
of fire — a seething caldron of liquid souls, hissing,
shrieking, groaning and cursing. There are all of
these noises there and many more; but the other
part is incorrect.
“A soul is a substance invisible to mortal eyes;
and yet has form and passion. I know it is denied
by philosophers as well as by theologist, but it is
true never-the-less. Robert Ingersol, the great
atheist, has said, ‘There is no hell,’ or something
to that effect, but that does not alter the fact of
there being one. What is remorse but hell ? Re-
morse of the bodily conscience is hell on earth; and
remorse of the soul is hell beyond the grave, even
if there was no place for remorseful souls to dwell.
But there is a place — a terrible place, ‘Prepared for
the devil and his angels,’ ruled over by Satan and
guarded by legions of devils. A mad-house might
be termed a hell in minature; but if we were to
combine a thousand of them and place all of their
38
ZELDKK, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
howling- maniacs in one larg-e room, we then would
have but a faint conception of what hell is.
“On the face of every soul in hell remorse is
pictured. There is not a one of them who has not
been to heaven, and now remembers its grandeurs
and the holy peace they knew while there. Com-
paring it with their present abode, this dark and
dreary infernal region, where hope comes not and
love is not known, except the baser passions, is it a
wonder that they know remorse ? Idleness is an-
other curse of hell. The souls there have nothing
to do, nothing but think — think of their vile deeds,
think of the Heaven they have lost, think of what
surrounds them, think, yes think. Do you know
what it is to think ? Not thoughts of fame, not
asperations, not to plan, not anticipations; I don’t
mean that kind of thinking at all; I mean thoughts
without an aim, thinking on one thing, over and
over, until that thought becomes a monotony, and
that monotony, a madness. Thus it is in hell.
Millions of souls are there with no occupation,
nothing to keep them from thinking. There is no
sleeping there, no oblivion, no forgetfulness. The
dead souls are doomed eternally to this — souls of
men and women, dead; that is, will have no other
body; but are living in hell forevermore. With
the souls that are not dead, those that will have
bodies again, it is not so bad; for they have expect-
ations if no hope. Their hell consists principally
in seeing the misery of others. I was of this more
favored lot; and in fact, was more favored than the
rest of them.
“Scarcely had I passed though the gates, when
I heard a voice, I had heard before, saying, ‘So
ZEIvDEK, the devil’s daughter.
39
you’ve come at last. How long- you were, I have
almost regretted leaving you to come alone.’
“Turning I beheld the woman, or soul, of my
dream — the same exquisite form; the same lovely
face; and the same beautiful, but maddening eyes.
I knew her then. I had seen her once before my
dream as I had seen her then. It was ‘Zeldee, the
Devil’s Daughter.’ It is useless to describe her now;
I did that sufficiently once before. As I looked at
her then, those eyes again took possession of me;
and I shuddered, for I knew her history. I had seen
her several times in other forms than that of Zel-
dee; but only once before my dream in that.
“Beelzebub the king of devils was very angry
when he heard of the advent on earth of Jesus the
Son of God; and filled with jealousy he quickly
left his throne of Darkness, and came to earth to
superintend the destruction of Christ. He first
sent his servants to tempt Him in every form, but
without avail, they could not make Him sin; and
then he tried; and you know the story of that
tempting, how repeatedly he offered Him great
things, and how repeatedly the God-man refused
them, and drove back the temptor.
“Then Satan fled; but ere he returned to hell,
he took the form of a man and went into another
country, and made his way to the palace of the
king. Here he represented himself as an embassa-
dor from the far Kast; and told such straight-
forward tales, (the devil is a great liar) that he
was believed. While at the palace he met the ver-
gin daughter of the king and was often with her
alone. He remained there but a few days; but
when he left, the king’s daughter was a vergin no
40
ZKI.DKK, thk devil’s daughter.
more. The servants of the king- soug-ht hig-h and
low for the embassador; and had they found him,
his life would have been required for his deed. But
the embassador had the form of the devil once
more, and was invisible to them. So it came about
that the devil became the father of a daug-hter;
thoug-h the king- had her killed immediately after
birth; but her soul still lives, and the devil calls
her ‘Zeldee.’
“Unlike other souls she has the power to g-o
when and where she pleases; thus she was able to
appear to me in what I’ve alwa3’'S termed my dream.
I realize now that it was not my physical eyes that
saw her, but the eyes of my soul. She has her
earthly bodies too, like all other souls that are not
dead; so when I entered hell I recog-nized her, not
only as the woman of my dream, but also as a soul
I had seen in hell before; and one I had seen the
body of on earth several times; and often we had
been thrown tog-ether and our lives had blended.
Althoug-h she retained the reason of her soul while
in the body, she never devulg-ed her secret; so it
was never known except to souls that the devil had
a daug-hter.
“Knowing- her history", as I did, from beg-in-
ning^ to end; when she began to talk to me and tell
me again how she loved me I knew it was useless
to resist and yielding to her seductive charms I was
led away into the heart of hell by Zeldee.”
For sometime, the doctor and preacher had
been too interested to interrupt the narrator, but
in the last few minutes it had slowly dawned upon
them that it was broad day-light. And althoug-h
they would willingly have had Anthoin pro-
ZKLDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 41.
long- his narrative, they knew it was time to depart;
so asking- him to skip minor details, and come to
the point and end of the story as soon as possible,
they settled themselves in their chairs ag-ain, and
prepared to listen to the close, and afterward to
question.
Marcus Anthoin, thoug-ht a moment, and then
said, “I hardly know how to shorten, without
spoiling- the tale; but I know you wish to be g'one,
that is quite natural, so I will do the best I can.
Zeldee took me under her special care; and showed
me thing’s in hell I had never seen before. If
she went up to the throne of her father, I went too;
if she wandered to the farthest bounds of the king-
dom, I was by her side. We were continually to-
gether. She would never let me leave her. Those
eyes, that had haunted me so on earth, had the old
power over me, and kept me under the control of
their owner. She was of a jealous disposition. I
suppose this accounts for her excessive watchful-
ness. I was not sorry for her attention, however,
as my lot was made more bearable by it. It was
something to divert my mind from the misery
around me.
“She was almost constantly telling me of her
love and begging me to love her in return. One
day when she had been more passionate than usual,
and had thrown herself into my arms with that
careless recklessness that characterized her, (I held
her willingly. Who would not have done so?) I
asked her, ‘If you love me as you say you do, what
will you do when one of us is sent back to earth to
inhabit another body?’
“She lay motionless for a minute, and then
42
ZKLDKE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER.
Sprang- from my arms and shrieked, ‘What will I
do? Nothing-. I tell you it shall not be. Do you
think I lured you here for nothing-? Do you want
to g-o back and leave me?’
“ ‘No, no,’ I hastened to reply, trying- to soothe
her. ‘I assure you I don’t want to g-o without you;
and ’twould g-rieve me as much if you went as it
would you if I went.’ I was telling- the truth; for
I knew what hell would be if she was not there to
amuse me.
“She looked searching-ly at me for a moment
and then said, ‘Then you do love me.’ I did not deny
it. She g-ave me another searching- look and then
came close to me, took me by the hand and said,
‘Come.’ It was not necessary that she should have
taken me by the hand to lead me, had she but look-
ed, I would have been compelled to follow; but in
her excitement I suppose she forg-ot her power.
Through hell she led me, directly past her father’s
throne, he laughed when he saw us, a laugh that
was more of a roar. To the farthest bounds of hell
she went, and I followed. There was the black
wall I’d often seen before — a wall so black that not
an object could be seen upon it. I was about to
stop; but she kept straight on. Noticing my
astonishment she laughed and said, ‘You are just
like the majority of the other poor souls. You
think this is a wall, but you are mistaken. It is
nothing but darkness that is so thick no light can
penetrate it. Even if other souls knew it, I don’t
think they would venture to do what you and I are
going to do, thcLt is, pass through it.’
“As she spoke we passed into the darkness*
There was the blackness of the Valley of the Shadow
ZKlvDEK, THK DE Vila’s DAUGHTER.
43
of Death and the stillness of it also. I certainly
should not have ventured into it alone, but
Zeldee seemed to be perfectly familiar with the way,
for she steadily advanced. I had heard of souls,
who had wandered aimlessly about in this darkness
for years, trying- to find their way back to earth,
but who had finally g-iven it up and g-one toward
the beacon-lig-ht, as soon as they saw its rays,
arriving- at Hades very much exhausted. I had no
doubt, in spite of Zeldee’s calmness, but that, that
would be the way with us. I mig-ht have resisted
my conductor had I been able to resist; for althoug-h
her eyes were invisible in that darkness she still
held me by the hand and hence she ruled my will.
Just as I had about nerved myself to make a slig-ht
remonstrance, and was about to ask her to return to
Hades, if she could, a faint streak of lig-ht loomed
up before us; this became wider and wider until we
immerg-ed into the lig-ht that lights the earth.
“You see gentlemen how difficult it is to shorten
the tale; but it must be done I know. First, I’ll tell
you Zeldee’s plan to keep us from separating.
When we reached the earth, which no other souls
had ever been able to do, she proprosed, we should
flit through space, from town to town, and country
to country, until we found a couple, a man and
wife, who were dying; and whose ends would come
near the same time. She proposed, when the
bodies were vacated by their former souls, that we
should enter them; and by our superior will power
and activity, force the worn out forms to do our
will. I had little hope for the success of the plan;
but yet was willing to try it.
“We found what we wanted in New Orleans.
44
ZEI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
A man and his wife were wasting- away. The
man was about seventy-five and the woman seventy
years of ag-e. Their disease (their souls were tired
and needed rest, that was all ) had baffled the doc-
tors, who had said they could not live but a few
days; so we determined to remain near by, to enter
as soon as their souls had left the bodies, providing-
they departed about the same time. We did not
have to wait long; the end came the following
night. Two sons and a daughter of the dying
couple; the husband of the daughter; the doctor
and several of the neighbors were there when the
end came.
“The woman died first. One of her sons held
her in his arms until she breathed her last; then he
laid her gently down, and brushed a tear from his
eye; while the daughter sobbed aloud. My cour-
age would have failed me then, had not Zeldee
been ruling my will. Five minutes later, the old
man opened his lips as though to speak, but he
only gasped and closed his eyes.
“The doctor said, ‘He is gone.’
“ ‘Now,’ said Zeldee. And I immediately enter-
ed the body of the man and she that of the woman.
I exerted all my will; but at first the tired heart
refused to beat; but it yielded at last and blood be-
gan to course through the veins. Zeldee’s task
was more difficult; but she finally succeeded. Of
course everybody was greatly surprised at Marcus
Anthoin and his wife returning to life after the
doctor had pronounced them dead. But we cared
nothing for that. We would have prefered to have
gotten into younger bodies; but determined to make
the best of our lot. Although we had the ability
zeld£:e, the devil’s daughtek.
45
to enter the bodies, we did not have the power to
leave them except by killing* them, or in dreams,
when we slept. In a weeks time we were able to
leave our room. I had stopped calling* her Zeldee;
and called her by the woman’s name, ‘Antonette’.
“We lived in New Orleans for a year, during*
which time we quarreled with our sons and
daug*hter. Ha, ha, our sons and daug*hter! They
were nothing* to us, so what need we care. Marcus
Anthoin was not a wealthy man as the world takes
it; but he had some property. This we converted
into cash and left the town. After g’oing* from one
Southern city to another we came here, about two
months ag*o, and I became ill. We rented this
house ready furnished, and here you find us.
My malady, g*entlemen, is a tired soul. This
body, as you know, is exhausted; so my soul has to
furnish streng*th for it; that, with the burden of
the secret, I have just disclosed, was more than I
could have stood much long*er; but now with the
secret removed, I, perhaps, can live a few years
more.
“Now g*entlemen, I must thank you for your
kindness and patience in waiting* until the end of
the story.”
46
ZKI.DKK, the devil’s daughter.
CHAPTER VIII.
IITTERI-0CT7TI01T-
The storj was done, and the day was advanc-
ing-; yet Anderson and Holland did not leave. They
were interested in the old man and in the tale he
had told. There were questions to be asked and
questions to be answsred; so they stayed and plied
the narrator with the questions, receiving- answers,
that did not surprise them now — they were past
that. They often wondered if what he said was
true, or only the fancies of a disordered mind; but
his eye was so clear and his answers so straig-ht-
forward and intellig-ent, that they ceased to wonder
and took all he said as the truth; even thoug-h it
blasted the theories they had heard all their lives.
For the benefit of the reader we will g-ive a
few of the questions and answers, but bear in mind;
althoug-h we tell, in part, the conversation, there
were many breaks and interruptions; many ques-
tions asked that we do not record; and many dis-
cussions on the answers that it is not deemed
necessary to print. We simply tell that part which
will throw lig-ht on the after story.
“Are you content to be ruled thus, by another’s
will?” asked Holland.
“I am not ruled by anothers will now,” replied
Anthoin. “That rule ceased last night.”
“Do you mind telling how you freed yourself?”
asked Anderson.
“Centainly not. I realized from the time I re-
ZELDEE, THE devil’s DAUGHTEK.
47
turned to earth, that some day, Zeldee’s rule would
become irksome to me; and I began to devise some
plan to escape. I reasoned, ‘It is the strongest
mind must rule.’ So I studied philosophy and
what was once called ‘The black art and witch-
craft,’ but now termed, ventriloquism, mind read-
ing, hypnotism and the like. It was easy to ac-
complish my object, knowing as I did, all the
misteries of the other world. Last night I realized
for the first time that my will was strong enough
to cope with hers; and I did not wait to break her
power; and as soon as it was broken, I found I
could easily make her obey me; so I did not hesitate
to ask her to leave the room, when I desired it.”
“Was there not some way, you could have re-
sisted her when you was Merideth Kline, before
she lured you into the Devil’s pit?
“There were several, if I had but known them.
One, the method I have already used; another, by
being a devout Christian; and another, by possess-
ing the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“If you had, had the Philosopher’s stone in
your possession, could you have baffled her succes-
fully?”
“More easily than in any other way.”
“But I thought this stone, of which we speak,
was an imaginary one; and only reported to have
power to turn into gold everything it touched.”
“I know that is the general idea; but it is a
mistaken one. It is true all baser metals are turn-
ed into gold by its touch; it is a real stone with
that power; and the person with it in his keeping
can become immensely wealthy by using it proper-
ly, and he also, can resist the devil or any of his
48 ZKI.DEK, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER,
subjects.”
“Is this stone in the possession of man, or is
it hidden in the earth?”
“I cannot saj. It was once possessed by an
old Italian, who did not know its value, and, who
sold it to a Frenchman for a mere song-. What be-
came of it after that I do not know. The French-
man g-ot killed in a duel a few months later. The
stone may be lost and buried for all I know; but I
intend to find it, if I live long- enoug-h.”
“Perhaps it is in the possession of some one
already.”
“Then I’ll g-et it from them.”
“How?”
“I don’t know that either. I’ll buy it if I can,
or trade for it, or perhaps I’ll have to steal it, but
I will have it if it is to be had.”
The}" all laug-hed at this, for, althoug-h he
spoke seriously, they imagined he intended it for a
-joke.
After many other questions, the two friends
arose to go, assuring Anthoin that they had enjoyed
his narrative, and expressed the hope of their meet-
ing again.
“I also hope for that pleasure,” replied he.
“And let me thank you again for your kindness in
listening to my story. I feel greatly relieved since
devulging my secret, in fact I feel so much stronger,
that, I think, I can accompany you to the outer
door.” So saying he arose from the bed and began
to dress himself.
Anderson and Holland each said he was de-
lighted to see him so much improved, and offered
to assist him in dressing; but he declined saying
ZEI.DKK, the devil’s daughter.
49
he was even strong-er than he had supposed.
After dressing- he called his wife, who entered
immediately, and bid her to bid their friends, “Good
bye.” She was more pale than on the previous
evening- and her eyes were not so bright, which
sug-gested that she had spent a sleepless night as
well as themselves; and perhaps had listened to
their conversation; but she did not betray it if she
had. She followed them and her husband to the
landing after asking them to remain to breakfast,
which they politely declined to do.
Anthoin’s demonish voice had not returned up
to the time of the friends departure; owing, no
doubt to his being governed now by his own will.
He shook their hands at parting, as did his wife
who informed them that the electric cars had been
running, as usual, for an hour or more.
And so they parted, this man and wife, dead
and yet alive; and the professional men, one of
whom was feeling glad to go home to his wife and
child; while the other had a strange feeling in his
breast, one that was new to him and which he had
felt for the first time when he held the old crone
Antonette Anthoin by the hand, and saw those
piercing eyes bent toward his face.
ZELDEE^S REVENGE.
CHAPTER I.
P'ROI^ OUT THE ITOOSE.
“There’s many a slip ’twix the cup and the
lip,” is a saying- old and true. Many a man has
g-rasped the Goblet of Life and raised it to his lips
to drink the pleasure thereof; but only found the
dregs. Many a one has put out his hand to lay
hold of the fortune that seemed within his reach;
and drew it back empty. Many another has
thought to win the “Idol of his Heart,” only to
receive the “mitten” at the last moment. Many a
time the Law has caught its criminal; only to lose
him again before the sentence.
The Law had lost its criminal. But this time
after the sentence had been passed; and just before
the rope was around his neck. Everybody in the
town was discussing it and surmising how the
murderer could have escaped. Did he have help
from the out-side? There was no evidence of it.
Did he bribe the guards? They were trust-worthy
men and not likely to receive bribes; and yet, the
prisoner was gone, with no apparant means of
escape. His cell had been found barred as usuial
and none of the guards had seen him pass, if they
had they would have stopped him. But he was
ZEI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
51
g-one, there was no doubt of that; and the scaffold
which had been erected on the yesterday was still
standing- in the jail yard, and if it could feel, it no
doubt, was feeling- very much mortified, at being
cheated out of its victim.
Telegrams had been sent in every direction
giving a discription of the escaped prisoner; but he
had not been recaptured. The description was as
follows: “Age: seventy -five, very active for his age;
heigth: five feet eight inches; hair: very white
and long; white mustache and goatee; dressed in a
gray suit of clothes, with negligee shirt, black
^cravat and rough canvass shoes.” To this was
added, that the governor offered two hundred
dollars for his body; but even this did not find the
missing man.
One of ths fast mail trains of the Southern
Railway was speeding northward, with a shriek
and a roar; dashing over bridges, whizzing over
trestles, and breaking through the still evening air
like a great fiery demon chasing the departing
day.
In one of the coaches, amid the freight of
human beings, sat a man that might have attracted
attention had he shown himself from behind the
paper he was reading. He was neatly dressed in a
genteel suit of black; he wore a white shirt, a
standing collar and a black necktie; an ordinary
traveling cap covered his head; his shoes were
nicely laced and well polished; but his appearance
in this way is not what would have attracted at-
tention; but, although his hair was black as that
52
ZKIvDE:E, the devie’s daughter.
of a man of twenty-five, his clean shaven face was
wrinkled as that of a man of seventy. He was
reading- a paper, as we have already said, and a
smile brig-htened his face as he read, until it look-
ed almost boyish; and with a self-satisfied air he
nestled more comfortably in his seat and went on
with his reading-. He was reading- of the misteri-
ous escape from prison of Marcus Anthoin, the
wife murderer. And what were his thoug-hts?
In a doctor’s office in Baltimore was seated a
handsome man, presumably the doctor. He was a
young- man, evidently not over thirty, of medium
heig-hth with well built frame. A well trimmed
mustache covered his upper lip, while his soft blue
eyes and dark waving- hair g-ave to him the look of
a poet. There was a touch of melancholy in his
face — a sad thoughtful expression; and his eyes
had a far away look as though he saw things in
the future that other men could not see; but all
this added to, rather than detract, from the personal
beauty of Doctor William Anderson, if this was
him; that was the name upon the plate on the
door.
Any woman might have been proud to boast of
the conquest of his heart. Many fair daughters
of Kve had undertaken it, but without success thus
far. He liked the ladies well enough; but as for
loving them — well that was different. There was
one woman he could have loved, but he did not
even know her name, except that it was Gertrude.
About a year before the time of which we
write she had passed his office while he was at his
ZELDEE, the devil’s DAUGHTEK.
53
window watching the passers-by. He was at once
attracted by her face and determined to get a
nearer view; so bringing his hypnotic power to bear
upon her, (he was a noted hypnotist) he had the
pleasure of seeing that it influenced her. Willing
her to enter his office he turned from the window to
receive her. She entered, and he found that his
eyes had not deceived him. She was about eigh-
teen and very small, scarcely over five feet in height;
yet her form was perfect and her face angelic. She
was one of those dainty little creatures, with sunny
hair, laughing blue eyes, rosy cheeks, rosy lips
and pearly teeth. Who would not have admired
her? Not William Anderson. For when she stood
before him, he was so lost in admiration, that he
nearly lost his power over her; and only regained
his presence of mind in time to renew it and motion
her to be seated.
“Be natural,” he told her, and began to talk on
various subjects. He found her intelligent and
able to converse on deeper topics than most women
know. He did not detain her long, however, he
thought, “Some one may enter at any moment and
understand, or misunderstand in the wrong way,
either would be disagreeable; so I’d better let her
leave.” But before she left he asked her for her
name. She told him, “Gertrude.”
“Gertrude what?” he asked her.
“I — I cant remember,” she replied. “It seems
to be Johnston, Johnson, Thompson or something
like that. I don’fknow.”
“Well I can easily find out,” he thought, and
opened the door for her to go; then he quickly
closed it again. “Kiss me good bye before you
54
ze:i,dke, the devie’s daughter.
g-o,” he said; but she hesitated before obeying-. “I
will it,” he said; then she came forward, ’though
her cheek flushed crimson, and gave him the sweet-
est kiss he had ever recevied. He allowed her to
leave then; and released her from his power when
she was nearly a block away. He was watching
her from his window, and saw her turn and look
back as soon as he had released her; then she went
on again.
He had never seen her since and had never
learned her name. We have said, “He was sitting
in his office.” He was thinking of that remarkable
stor}^ told to him and his friend Holland, while in
Birmingham, by Marcus Anthoin; and said half
aloud, “I must be going crazy; for ever since I read
of his killing his wife, I have seen those eyes as he
described them and the woman too as he described
her. She is too brazen for me, but those eyes,
those eyes.” and he placed his hands before his own
eyes as though to shut out the sight of those pierc-
ing black ones.
Then taking a paper which lay upon the table
beside him; and turning on more gas, he proceeded
to read. The first article he saw was headed,
“Escaped Criminal.”
“Wife murderer Anthoin escapes from his
prison on the night before the day set for his
execution.”
He started when he saw the heading; but read
the article through; and then said, “That fellow,
Anthoin is no fool.” Just then he heard a light
tap upon his office door and called, “Come in.”
The door opened; he sprang to his feet in an
instant, and said, “Gertrude.”
ZEI.DEE, the devil’s daughter.
55
CHAPTER II.
WOlwffElT'S I-OVE AITD WOlvfl: AIT'S WITS.
“What would a woman not do for love? It
may be true, that she often transfers it from one to
another, but it is also true, that when she really
loves, there is scarcely anything- she would not do
for her adored.
“ ‘Chang-eful woman, constant never;
He’s a fool who trusts her ever;
For her love doth ever g-o.
Like the waters, to and fro.’ /
“Dear old Hug-o! How he liked to quote that
verse of his illustrous name sake. There is a deal
of truth in the verse too; and it suits my case ex-
actly. I loved Hug-o as well as any woman loves
her husband; but now he is dead, and been dead six
months, I can’t g-o moping- around like I am nearly
dead too when I am so full of life, I can’t rest
unless there is something- exciting- g-oing- on. That
handsome young- doctor I saw the other day would
be just the fellow to keep me from being- dull. I
wonder how I can g-et acquainted with him ? I do
believe I am nearly in love with him already. Let
me see — what did they say his name was, er An-
derson? That is a common enoug-h name; and
William, that is the commonest of common; but
they don’t sound so bad when used tog-ether:
Doctor William Anderson, that is alrig-ht. And
I’ll bet, he is the proper caper.”
Thus soliloquized young- Mrs. Fleming-, as she
56
ZKLDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
sat before a cheerful fire in her cosy sitting’ room.
The bit of American slang, with which her mono-
logue ended, and which is not becoming in any
one, sounded unusually rough, when coming from
her pretty mouth; for she soliloquized aloud. It
is strange how many people do this. Can it be
that they love to hear the sound of their own voices?
Or is it an unconscious habit, which if you told
them of, it would be hard to convince them it was
true? The latter is probably nearer right. At
least it was so in the present instance; for when a
lady friend, who had entered unperceived, and who
had heard most of the revery, began to laugh, she
was honestly surprised; not so much at her unex-
pected presence, as at what could have caused her
mirth.
“Dear Gertrude, when did you come? I’m so
glad to see you. Take off that hat and wrap and
come to the fire; and tell me, for goodness sake,
what you are laughing at.”
“At you my dear Kdna and at nothing else,”
reponded the bewitching Gertrude, who has been
described in the preceeding chapter. She was a
great friend of Mrs. Kdna Flemming, having
known her all her life. She was two years younger
than her friend and had a much purer mind; but
they loved each other like sisters; neither of them
had ever had a sister, or a brother either for that
matter, being the only children of their respective
parents, and having been neighbors nearly all
their lives, they had pla3^ed together when child-
ren and had continued their intimacy in woman-
hood. It was a common thing for Gertrude to
“drop in and spend the day,” with Kdna, and some-
ZELDKE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER.
57
times she would stay several days. This time she
had come with the intention of doing- the latter.
“Do I look so ridiculous, that you must stand
there and nearly kill yourself laug-hing- at rue?’'
Asked the pretty widow, with pretended ang-er.
“I laug-h at your words and not at your looks,
Sweet One,” answered her girl friend.
“My ‘Words?”
“Yes, your words. For you must know you
have the very bad habit of thinking aloud; and I
have had the pleasure of listening to your love
revery. Now if you will be so kind as to tell me
all about this doctor you are in love with, we may
be able to devise some way for you to get acquaint-
ed with him. You see I heard it all.”
The widow joined in the laugh against her-
self and said, “You bad, bad girl, you should have
closed 3^our ears and not have listened to a word.
But no, you stood there as still as a mouse, and
hea,rd all my secrets. I’m real mad at you. I am.”
But her laugh belied her words; so failing in her
sham seriousness she caught the dainty figure of her
little friend in her arms, and nearly smothered her
with kisses. Then placing her unceremonioush^
in an eas}" rocker, near the fire, she drew up an-
other for herself and sat down with the air of one
who says, “Well, what’s next?”
“Now tell me about your doctor,” said Gertrude
arranging her disordered hair.
“There’s not much to tell,” replied Fdna. “But
I’ll tell you all I know. The other dRj, I think it
was Monday, I went to see Bertha, I suppose you
know she has been unstylish enough as to have a
baby, (its a boy ) arid she is awfully proud of it; so
58
ZEIvDEE^ THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER.
is her husband; well while I was there the doctor
came. He bowed to me, and of course I bowed.
Bertha was too much occupied with the baby to
think about introducing- us, she got out of it after-
ward by saying, she ‘thought we knew each other.’
She said it was Dr. William Anderson and gave me
the address of his office. That’s all there is about
him, except, he’s very handsome and I’m in love with
him; or want to be.”
“How old is he?” asked Gertrude.
“About twenty -nine or thirty.”
“And handsome you say? Describe him and
tell me where his office is.”
The widow described the doctor as well as she
could remember, and she did him full justice; then
she told his office address. Gertrude Robson start-
ed, for the locality was the same, in which she had
had a peculiar dream. Our readers remember
this same young lady being hypnotized by Ander-
son, and what followed. She had always looked
upon that incident as a dream; as she could account
for it in no other way. She supposed she had, in
some mysterious way, slept while walking along
the street, and had continued to walk^ like a som-
nambulist, dreaming as she went; for she was con-
sider abl)- farther down the street when she came to
herself, than when she lost consciousness. To the
widow’s query of why she started she replied by
telling her of that dream, and that she had felt afraid
ever since then, to walk along that street alone.
But Edna had done a very impolite thing, that is,
failed to listen to her friend; and had only heard
her in a vague way. A project had entered her
brain and absorbed all of her thoughts. As her
ZELDKE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER.
59
friend ceased speaking- she clapped her hands and
cried:
“That will be the very thing-; and if I don’t
have him adoring- me inside of a week then he
must be adamant.”
“What will be the very thing-?” asked Ger-
trude, surprised at her friend’s words. “M3’
dream?”
“No dear,” replied Edna with a smile. “I real-
ly must beg- 3’our pardon; but such a capital idea
entered my head, while 3’ou was talking, that I for-
got you and everything, except that. Now if you
will tell your stor3’ again I promise I’ll listen to
ever3’ word.”
“ ‘Shakespeare never repeats,’ you know; then
why should I? Besides it is nothing worth repeat-
ing. I’m more interested in that capital idea of
yours, than in what I was telling you; so please let
me know what it is. How are you going to per-
suade the doctor to love you?” And Gertrude looked
very interested indeed. Sensible girl that she was.
she readily over-looked her friend’s rudeness.
“And you are not mad with me at all for being
so ill-mannered?”
“Not at all Edna. But do pra3’ tell me this
idea of yours before my curiosity drives me mad.”
“Well it is this. I will pretend to — But you
will help me wont you?” And the widow looked
inquiringly at Gertrude.
“Of course I will,” answered the little lady.
“You knew that before you asked. Why didn’t
you keep on? What are you going to pretend to
do?”
“Pretend I am sick, very ill, delirious; and you
60
ZKLDKE, the devil’s DAUGHTEK.
as my friend, staying- with me for a few days, will
get alarmed and send or go for a doctor. That
doctor will be Dr. Anderson. As soon as he arrives
you will take him to my room where he will pre-
scribe for me; and where I will rave, and show off
charms to the best advantage.”
“But wont that be a little immodest?” querried
Gertrude, who shrank from anything low or vul-
gar.
“No you little goose. Isn’t he a doctor? And
as such doesn’t he often go into ladies’ rooms to
pay professional visits? Besides I am not really
well, I have had a fever all day. All I’ll have to
do is to pretend to be much worse than I am.
He’ll think I have had a chill and the fever is mak-
ing me delirious; and he’ll give me a fever powder,
which instead of doing me harm will do me good.
After that he will call two or three times to see if
I’m getting along nicely; then if I play my part
well he will continue his visits in a friendly way
and the game will be won.”
Gertrude was not convinced b}^ her friends
words, that it was right to practice deception, even
to win a lover; or that it was wise to lay aside
womanly modesty. And she said as much, adding
that she would assist her all she could, however, for
she did not wish her scruples to stand in the way
of a friend’s happiness and especially when that
friend was Edna. The widow replied by calling
her a “Dear little old goody, goody,” and saying,
“I’m so glad you are going to lay aside your feel-
ings and help an old friend to win her heart’s de-
sire. And I’ll try not to make you blush while the
doctor is here.”
ZELDEE, THE devil’s DAUGHTEK.
61
At this they both laug-hed; for they well re-
membered a time during’ the life time of Hug'o
Flemming-, when the married woman’s free ways
with her husband had made her young- friend’s
cheek burn with blushes of shame.
• They dropped the subject of the doctor soon,
and beg-an to converse on other matters, the latest
fads of society; the new styles of hats and dresses for
the coming- season; and such thing’s so dear to femi-
nine hearts.
While they were talking. Aunt Dinah, an old
neg-ress who had lived with the Flemming-’s nearly
all her life, and who had come to cook for “Marse
Hug’o” after he g-ot married, and still lived with
his widow, entered the room and said, “Bless my
life, if I aint done ring- dat ole bell all to pieces an’
yo’ aint beared it yet! Suppah’s ready Miss Edna
an’ on de table g-ettin’ cole. Bless my life, if dare
aint Miss Gertrude! I’s so g-lad you’s come. How
is you honey?”
“I’m quite well I thank you Aunt Dinah.” re-
plied the lady addressed, smiling at the old woman’s
quaint words.
“Bless my life, if yo’ aint lookin’ well! I tole
Car’line de udder day ‘Bless my life, if Miss Ger-
trude Robson dont git prettier ebery day she lives!’
But bofe of yo’ had better come along while sup-
pah’s fit to eat.” So saying the old woman left the
room followed by the two pretty women, one of
whom was destined to win the heart of William
Anderson.
After supper Mrs. Flemming told Aunt Dinah
that she wished to speak with her as soon as the
dishes were cleared away; and then repaired to the
62
ZEI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
sitting- room with her friend. It was not long- be-
fore the neg-ress put in her appearance, and began
to smile; for the expression on the faces before her,
told plainly enough, that there was fun to be
had.
“What is it Miss Kdna?’’ she asked, her srnile
broadening into a grin.
“Aunt Dinah,” the widow began. “Do you
know where Dr. Anderson’s office is?”
“No Miss Kdna, neber beared of it.”
“But you could find it if I told you the num-
ber and street, couldn‘t you?”
“Bless my life! Honey yo’ know I cant read.’’
“That’s alright,” interposed Gertrude “I’ll go
with her. I’m not afraid.”
“And if it is not exactly proper, why a breach
of propriety is allowed when some one is very
sick.” And Kdna laughed heartily at her joke.
Gertrude laughed too; so did the old negress, who
laughed out of sympathy, not knowing what the
joke was.
“Now Aunt Dinah,” said her mistress. “I’m
going to tell you what’s up; but don’t you ever
breathe a word of it to anybody, if you do I’ll be
awfully angry.”
“Bless my life! Miss Kdna I love yo’ too well
to make 3^0’ angry. I wont say a word to a soul.”
“Well then, we are going to pla^" a little joke
on our friend Dr. Anderson. I’m going to pretend
I’m sick, and 3^ou and Miss Gertrude will go for
this doctor. He’ll come and prescribe for me and
afterwards when we tell him how we have fooled
him, we will have a laugh at him. Do you under-
stand?”
ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
63
“Ho! Ho! Bless mj life! Wont dat be fun?”
And Aunt Dinah held her sides and laug-hed as
though it was the best joke she had ever heard of.
Mrs. Flemming- arose and said, “I’d better g-o
to my room, and prepare to act my part. Gertrude
come and help me. Aunt Dinah g-o and tell Caro-
line that you and Miss Gertrude are g-oing- for a
doctor; that I am very sick and must not be dis-
turbed by her or any one until you return. Tell
her to be ready to open the door for you when you
come back.”
“Yes Miss Kdna.” And the old neg'ress vanish-
ed still laug-hing-.
“We could have taken the latch key and open-
ed the door for ourselves when we returned, and not
have let Caroline know anything- about your being-
sick,” said Gertrude.
“Yes, and what would Dr. Anderson think if
he came with 3’'ou and found that I had been left
alone, and I delerious from fever? No, he must see
Caroline if he comes with 3-0U, that is certain. But
)^ou come and help me g-et ready.’’ So saj-ing- she
led the way to her chamber, where her friend help-
ed her disrobe. Selecting- her prettiest night dress
she put it on; and loosening her loveH hair, she
let it fall over her shoulders, contrasting nicel}"
with her fair skin and snowy night-gown. Then
she bid her friend to go and bring the doctor,
laughing as she took a tragic attitude, and said,
“Give me William or give me death.”
In the lower passage Gertrude found Aunt
Dinah waiting for her, and tog'ether they left the
house — two agents, one black, the other white,
sent forth to lure an unsuspecting- victim into the
snares of Cupid.
64
ZKI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER III.
JL ROVill- n-TTSH-
In a former chapter we described a man who
was traveling- northward on a Southern Railway
train. At Washing-ton Cit}' that man alig-hted and
went to a hotel, where he reg-istered as Lawrence
Q. Mayo; ordered a g-ood supper, and eng-ag-ed the
best room in the house for the night. He seemed
to have plenty of money which he spent freely;
therefore he was an object of interest. There were
three men in particular, three United States sena-
tors, who were interested in him. They watched
his ever}" movement; and when he returned to the
lobby from the dining room, one of them accosted
him, introduced himself and asked if he ever play-
ed poker; as some friends and himself were about
to have a friendly g-ame, and thoug-ht perhaps, he
being- a strang-er, he mig-ht be lonesome and would
like to join them to while the time away.
Lawrence Mayo, or Marcus Anthoin as our
readers will already have imagined it was, replied
that he was not much of a poker player, but as he
had nothing else to do, and as they had been so
kind as to ask him, he did not mind playin g- a few
g-ames. So it came about that Anthoin and the three
senators seated themselves around a table in the
room of one of the latter. The first senator having-
introduced Anthoin to the others, cigars and spirits
were produced; but our old acquaintance refused
both, though the others smoked and drank freely.
THK DKVIIv’S DAUGHTER.
65
As they drank, their tong-ues became loosened and
they talked rather too much to pay much attention to
the game, so the small amounts staked were easil}"
won by Anthoin.
“They are baiting me,” he thought. “But
I’ll watch them and beat them at their own trick.”
Their gay conversation interested him extrem-
ly, especially one part of*it, in which he joined.
One of the senators, speaking of a friend of his,
said, “He is a duced funny fellow, although an
American by birth, he hates America with all his
heart; and has been living in France, for the last
ten years. He has bought a lovely place near the
river Rhone, and has built a regular palace. I was
there nearly two years ago and was fairly dazzled.
He use to be a comparatively poor man, but now he
is immensely wealthy. Where he got his money
nobody knows but himself, and no amount of coax-
ing will induce him to tell. He said when I asked
him about it, ‘I thought you would ask that before
you left; well, I dontmind telling you. I found the
philosopher’s stone one day; and ever since then I
have had all the gold I have desired.’ I laughed at
his joke though I felt very much disappointed; as I
really had thought he was going to tell me a secret
that others had tried in vain to make him tell.”
“Maybe he told you the truth and you didn’t
know it,” said Anthoin, determined to learn all he
could of the man who claimed to possess that won-
derful stone, which he had told Anderson and Hol-
land that he intended to get.
“Maybe he did,” replied the senator. “For
whatever it was must have been equal to it any
way.” And he took the cards that were just then
66
ZELDKK, the DEViE’S DAUGHTER.
handed to him. It was his time to deal.
But Anthoin was not satisfied, he continued to
interog-ate him until he had learned the man’s
name and where upon the banks of the Rhone his
home could be found.
“You seem to be interested in mj friend,” said
the senator, beg’inning- to deal the cards. “If 3'ou
wish I will g-ive you a letter of introduction to him;
then if you are ever in that country you can call
upon him, and make his acquaintance.”
“I accept your offer,” replied Anthoin, noticing-
at the same time, that all of the men had ceased
drinking and were narrowly watching the cards
that were being dealt to them. “Please write it
before we play, here is pen and paper,” handing
him a fountain pen and a sheet of paper, and then
adding to himself, “I must get that letter first, for
this will be the last game. They are preparing to
‘do me’ now. These senatorial thieves will cheat
here as well as in the senate.”
His mind was busily employed, while the sen-
ator was writing the letter, devising some plan to
frustrate them; and a smile spread over his features
as one occured to him that would be an effective, as
well as an amusing one, if he could carry it out.
The senator handed him the letter unfolded,
but he did not read it, he thanked him and folding
the sheet he put it in his pocket-book. The eyes
of the plaj'Crs glistened as they saw the roll of
bank notes the book contained for they thought by
some means they might become possessors of it.
As Anthoin replaced the book in his pocket a cry
like a woman’s, seemed to come from under the table
and then a woman’s, voice said, “Take your feet off
ZKLDKK, the; devil’s daughter.
67
of me. Wont you?” In an instant every head was
under the table looking- for the owner of the voice;
but no one was to be seen. They raised their
heads and looked at each other in g-reat perplexity.
The cards, that had been dealt before the letter
was written, were lying- face downward upon the
table, and it had taken the old man but an instant
to exchang-e his for those of the dealer. When
their heads were raised he looked as perplexed as
the others, for a moment, and then beg-an tolaug-h,
“Gentlemen,” he said. “It’s a little joke of
mine. I am a ventriloquist.”
The others laug-hed then, but it sounded rather
forced, and they looked at him with suspicion,
which his laug-h, with its demon’s ring-, did not
allay.
The play beg-an again, and Anthoin saw in an
instant, that his guess had been correct, for the
cards he held was a royae feush. He looked at
the dealer and saw astonishment written on every
lineament of his face, and he could hardl3' repress
a smile. The other two players had been looking at
their cards at the moment and had failed to see the
look of astonishment; and such was their confidence
in the ability of their confederate, that they had
no idea he could make a mistake.
One of them asked, “Is there a limit to the
betting?”
“Of course not,” replied the other two. “We
have not been limiting it thus far, so why should
we begin now? And besides, ‘There is no limit
among gentlemen.’ ”
The betting beg-an, and went higher and
higher, each wishing to have as much as possible on
68
ZEI.DKK, THE DEVit’S DAUGHTER.
the table before the call was made. The dealer kept
with the rest, he was the one to win, he had
“stacked” the cards to that end and althoug’h he
saw he had made a mistake somehow, yet he had
an excellent hand and was confident of winning*.
His cards were all spades and were the nine, ten.
Jack, Queen and King. There was not one chance
in a thousand of his losing, so he thought, and bet
accordingly. Each man raised his bet until there
was nearly ten thousand dollars on the table.
Then the showing came and Anthoin won.
For a moment the defeated sharpers remained
dumb-founded. They had been tricked the^^ knew.
But how? They could not tell. Then maddened
by their loss and by the whiskey they had drank,
with one accord they arose to attack the victor.
But they remained standing motionless by the
table. Anthoin had performed the wonderful feat
of hypnotizing three men at a time.
Collecting the money, he bowed sarcastically
to the living statues, and left the room. An hour
later he released the senators from his hypnotic
influence, and the next morning he took an early
train for Baltimore.
ZKLDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
69
CHAPTER IV.
JL VOICE IIT TEE EJLRE.
When Dr. William Anderson recog-nized the
lady, who entered his office, as the lady he had
hypnotised a year before, he called her “Gertrude,”
but realizing- his mistake in betraying- himself, his
face flushed, and he hastened to make an excuse.
“I beg- your pardon,” he said, as she started
back, her face getting- white and red by turns. “I
had a lady friend upon my mind as you entered,
and you resemble her very much, so for the moment
I thought it was her. Pray be seated,” he added,
noticing her paleness, and wondering if she was
going to faint, and what brought her there.
She took the seat olfered her, thinking at the
same time, how strange it was that this should be
the man of her dream; and then her paleness left
her and she blushed to the roots of her hair, as she
thought, perhaps, what she had called a dream
might have been a reality, and that she had been
in this office before and had really kissed this man.
Anderson handed her a glass of water, which she
took, and thanked him.
Having drank it, she said, “I feel better now.
Your mistake was quite natural; but it startled me
as my name is Gertrude. But I must tell you my
business.” Here was a trial for her, and one that
she had not thought of before. Although there
was a great mystery connected with her and this
man, for she did not believe the excuse he had
70
• ZKIvDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
g-iven her; and although she had never seen him
before this night unless the dream was real, she
had to admit to herself, that she loved him. Ad-
mitting this, it was indeed a trial to tell him her
errand and take him to her friend’s to be subjected
to the power of the fair widow’s charms, and per-
haps, to learn to love her. But she summoned
courage to do what she thought was her duty to
her friend, and tell him of Edna’s illness. He said
he would go, and would ’phone at once for a car-
riage.
“Very well,” she said, rising, though she felt
ver}” weak, “Then I will go back to my friend.
You remember the address?”
“Yes, I remember,” he answered. “But you
had better wait and go back in the carriage, unless
you have a conveyance at the door.”
“It is not a long way, and the walk will do me
good. Besides there is an old negro woman on the
outside, waiting for me. I am much obliged to
you all the same.”
“Then if you are going to walk I will walk
too,” said the doctor, putting on his overcoat, and
taking his hat and gloves from the table.
Gertrude was delighted to have him accom-
pany her, but still she said, “You’ll find it a cold
walk doctor. You had better wait for the car-
riage.”
Anderson laughed. The prospect of a walk
with this fair woman had made him supremely
happy; though the idea of his falling in love with
her had not occurred to him. His reply to her re-
mark was, “If you can stand the cold, why surely
I can, and if you have no objections to my going
ZEI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
71
with you, I prefer to walk.”
have no objections, certainly. It was of
your comfort I was thinking-,” and she colored
deeply as she said it. And Anderson wondered
“Why?”
They left the office tog-ether — she, one of the
few women of today with mind unsulled by ungod-
ly vanity; one of the few who would think them-
selves debased if they appeared in public with bare
shoulders and arms; one of the few, we might al-
most say, who place virtue above diamonds and
chastity above great possessions; she who believed
in God and Heaven with the old time simple faith,
and strove to do His will; and felt she was sinning
greatly by helping to deceive the doctor, even
though she did it for a friend — and he, the cold
stern man of the world, who in spite of the kind
talks and warm letters of his friend Holland upon
the subject; and in spite of the assertions of Marcus
Anthoin, could not believe in an immortal soul.
He was not an atheist, for he believed in God; but
what God was, or where he was, he never troubled
himself to think. But as they were not likely to
talk about religion, there was nothing to keep their
walk from being a pleasant one.
“Come Aunt Dinah,” called Gertrude to the old
negress, who had remained out side for no better
reason than the one she had given the fair girl
when she asked her to enter with her.
“No Miss Gertrude, you go on in, I aint gwine
to put any foots on dem marble steps.” But she had
been kept waiting in the cold so long, that she had
heartily repented of not entering.
“Law Miss Gertrude, I done thought you had
72
ZELDKE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
slipped out an’ g-one back a nudder way.”
“I did keep you waiting- a long time Dinah, but
we’ll walk fast now, to make up for it.”
Suiting her actions to her words, she started
off at a quick walk, the doctor by her side, and the
neg-ress following. Anderson offered Gertrude his
arm, which she took, and a thrill ran through her
as she touched it; and he also felt a feeling un-
known to him, as he felt the touch of the tiny hand.
Zeldee, with her maddening eyes, had lost her
power over him, it seemed, and he remembered her
no more. He began to talk with the sweet crea-
ture at his side on subjects of little importance,
and yet, they unconsciously slackened their speed
to the great consternation of the poor, old woman,
who was nearly frozen. Slower and slower they
walked, until Dinah thought they were going to
stop; and she looked to see them turn and go back
at any moment.
She had kept at a respectful distance and had
not heard their conversation, but she had said to
herself, “If dat aint a spoony couple, den I neber
seen one.”
Just as she had about determined to get nearer
them and ask them to walk a little faster,
they passed a dark alley, out of which a man
emerged, and said as he passed, “Good evening Dr.
Anderson.”
The doctor started violently, and looked
back. The man was in a shadow, where but a
ray of light fell upon him; but by that glimmer
Anderson recognized him. With the recognition
and the sound of the voice Zeldee’s power over him
returned, and the walk was no longer a pleasure.
ZElvDBE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
73
G-ertrude noticed the chang-e in him, but said noth-
ing- about it. Instinctively they increased their
speed, and sood reached the house of Widow Flem-
ming-, to the intense g-ratification of Dinah, who
said to herself, “I’s so g-lad dat man spoke to dem
an’ woke dem up. I wonder who he was?”
If she had been told, she would have been
“none the wiser;” but our readers would, for the
man was Marcus Anthoin.
CHAPTER V.
THE OE HEARTS-
Love is often a melo-drama, sometimes it is a
trag-edy, but seldom a comedy; yet there are times
when it is made even that. We are about to relate
the events of one of those times.
The door of Mrs. Flemming-’s house was open-
ed by Caroline, and Gertrude ushered the doctor
up the broad stairs to her friend’s room. As soon
they had entered the house they heard g-roans and
incoherent talk. This became more loud and dis-
tinct the nearer they approached Edna’s chamber.
Upon entering- it, they found its occupant indeed a
vision of beauty. Her cheeks were red as though
flushed by fever, but truly caused by pinching, and
close proximity to the fire. Her magnificent hair
falling in bewildering disorder over her shoulders^
iseemed to make a frame for the picture — her face.
Her eyes shone brightly,, and her teeth showed be-
74
ZELDEE, THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER.
tween her rosy lips, like two rows of pearls, adding
beauty to the picture. Her clothing was in disor-
der, being open in front, showing her snowy throat
and one ravishing breast, to great advantage. She
was seated on the edge of her bed, with one knee
clasped in her arms, rocking herself to and fro,
groaning and talking aloud. The position she was
in had a tendency to draw her night-dress from
over one of her shapely limbs, and it was revealed
nearly to the knee.
Gertrude was astonished; and she blushed until
her cheeks looked like a summer garden of roses, and
the words, “Oh! Edna,” were spoken ere she knew
it. But the doctor seemed not to notice his patients
appearance; infact he seemed to be pondering deep-
ly. It looked as if there was something of more
importance on his mind, than the illness or charms
of Mrs. Edna Flemming. And there was, some-
thing of more importance, to him at least. He had
scarcely seen the widow; for Zeldee’s eyes were
absorbing his attention. He asked Gertrude,,
“How long has she been like this?” But without
any curiosity or interest in his voice; and when she
answered truthfully, “I dont know. She was not
as bad as this when I left,” he seemed to hear her
voice, but not to understand her words. Mechan-
ically he placed his thermometer between Edna’s,
lips, and when she spit it out and went on with her
raving, he quietly replaced it in his. pocket, and
wrote a prescription which he handed to Gertrude,
saying:
“Give her one of these powders as soon as you
can get them, and the other in the morning. I
will call again to-morrow. Keep her as quiet as»
ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
75
you can.” Then he quickly crossed the room and
opened the door. “Good nig-ht,” he said, and he
was g’one.
Aunt Dinah who was at the foot of the stairs
showed h im out, and received to her querry of,
“How is she?” only the g-rulf answer, “About the
same.”
The door closed behind him with a bange and
then from Kdna’s room there came peal after peal
of laughter. Gertrude never smiled while her
friend laughed. She stood in the center of the
room with a sad expression on her face. Her
friend thought it was caused by her being shocked
at her disheveled appearance. But she was mis-^
taken, for Gertrude was thinking of Dr. Anderson.
“Who could it be who had such an influence over
him, that even the sound of his voice would make
him forget everything else.” There was some-
thing mysterious about it too. A doctor does not
often go into a sick room and leave without examin-
ing the patient, yet that is what had just occurred.
If it was some trouble weighing on his mind, and
the sound of that voice hcud recalled it to him, how
gladly she would have helped him bear it. But
there was no way for her to ascertain the truth of
the matter; so her mind was racked with con-
jectures, and so lost was she in her thoughts, that
Edna spoke twice to her before she heard her.
“Poor little girl! Did I shock your modesty to
such an extent tEatyouare speechless?” And then
the widow laughed again; but as Gertrude .did not
speak, she beg'an to feel angry, and crossly said,
■“For goodness sake, don’t stand there looking as
■though I had killed some one. If I had known
76
ZKI.DEE:, THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER.
you would make such a scene about it, I wouldn’t
have gotten you to assist me.”
“Oh Edna! I am so sorry; but I was not think-
ing of you at all,” and Gertrude went to her
friend’s side and put her arms around her. “I was
thinking of how strange the doctor acted. Did you
notice it?”
“Notice it? Of course I did,” answered the
widow. “It was more than I hoped for. I had ex-
pected him to be dazzled, but not to lose all control
of himself like that. Did you ever see a man so
flurried? Why he was afraid to look at me; and
as for touching me, I believe he would have faint-
ed.”
Gertrude was about to reply that she did not
think Dr. Anderson’s agitation and loss of self-
control was caused by Edna: but she decided not to
do so, as she might have betrayed her own feelings
if she talked to much about him; and besides, Mrs.
Flemming would not have believed anything con-
trary> to what she wished to believe. So instead
of enlightening her friend upon the subject she
simply said, “I think it will be best to destroy this
prescription, it might be dangerous to take any
medicine prescribed by a man in his frame of
mind.”
“That is just what I think. He’ll be back to-
morrow, but I’ll be so much better he wont need to
give me another prescription. I hate to take medi-
cine, and was a little afraid, if I acted as I did he
would insist on making me take some while he was
here. But everything worked lovely; and to-mor-
row we will see, the second act in the Comedy of
Hearts.”
z:fel.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK.
77
Let us leave the actress of the Comedy for a
while and follow the actor. He was as near to be-
ing- mad as the widow had appeared to be. In
the first place, he was in love with Gertrude,
thoug-h he did not realize it, for the fiery eyes of
Zeldee drove her from his mind. They seemed to
be burning- into his brain. For once in his life he
believed in a soul — and he would have killed that
soul as Marcus Anthoin had killed the body, if it
had been possible for him to do; for instead of lov-
ing- Zeldee he hated her with a hatred that increas-
ed every moment.
He was returning- to his office, or more truly
speaking-, he was following- her eyes which led him
in that direction, when upon entering- a badly
lig-hted street, her form as well as her eyes became
visible to him. She was dressed as Anthoin had
described her, and was walking- along the street a
short distance ahead of him. She often looked
back with a provoking smile. She was indeed
pretty, there was no denying that, and if she had
been a mortal, she would have been frozen in a
short time; but as it was, her body, bare to the
waist, and her limbs, bare to several inches above
the knees, did not seem to feel the cold at all.
Anderson determined to catch her, and beg her
to cease to torment him; so he called aloud, “Zel-
dee, Zeldee, wait a moment I wish to speak with
you,” but he was answered by a mocking laugh,
while a policeman standing on a corner, who of
course could not see Zeldee or hear her laugh,
mentally observed, “That must be a lunatic. I’ll
follow and see what he is about.” The laugh
maddened Anderson, who determined to catch the
78 ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER,
laug-her.
He ran toward her, but with another laug^h she
began to run too. It was a race not often heard of,
— a soul being* chased by a human being*, a doctor,
and he in turn being* chased by a policeman. It
did not last long*, however, for just as Anderson
put out his had to take hold of her, Zeldee sudden-
ly turned and crossed the street dodg*ing* under the
heads of two horses, attached to a heavy carriag*e,
being* driven recklessly down the street. Ander-
son was broug*ht to a sudden halt, and the wheels
of the carriag*e g*razed him as it passed. A hand
was upon his shoulder holding* him with a g’rip
like iron.
“What are you about?” asked the policeman.
“Mr. P'errell you have saved my life,” said the
doctor, realizing* the dang*er he had been in, “I
must be going* crazy.”
“Why Dr. Anderson I” ejaculated the police-
man, loosening his hold on his shoulder. “Is it
you?”
“Yes,” said Anderson, with a faint smile.
“This is I. But let me thank you for what you
have done, I — ”
“I only did my duty,” quickly interrupted Fer-
rell. “But I have gotten off of my beat and must
get back, so good night,” and he turned and walked
swiftly away.
Zeldee’s form had vanished, but her eyes re-
mained to torment Anderson. There was a glitter
in them too, that had not been noticeable before;
and it made the doctor think it boded no good to
him.
He was not far from his office, and reached it
zj^ldee, the devil’s daughter.
79
soon without further adventure. He was surprised
thoug’h, to find it brilliantly lighted; for when he
left, he had turned the light low and locked the
door; but now he found the door unlocked, and up-
on entering, he found a man seated, before the fire,
in an easy chair. It was evident too, that the fire
had been replenished.
The man did not rise when Anderson entered,
but contented himself with nodding his head and
saying with a bland smile, “You see doctor, I have
made free use of our slight acquaintance, by taking
possession of your office in your absence, and mak-
ing myself comfortable to await your coming.”
The doctor did not return the friendly nod and
smile. He had no liking for criminals — especially
wife murderers; so with something like a frown
upon his handsome face, he said, “Mr. Anthoin,
your ‘free use,’ as you say, of our slight acquaint-
ance would be alright in a man worthy of respect;
but a murderer cannot expect me to harbor him
from justice. Yet, because you did me a favor
once, though with a selfish motive, I will not hand
you over to the law if you will leave immediately;
but if you remain, I must call an officer.”
Anthoin listened to him with the smile still
upon his face. No one seeing him, would have
thought he was being called a murderer, and be-
ing asked to leave the office. He remained seated
when Anderson ceased speaking, but threw his
head back and laughed loud and long. It was that
same demonish laugh, that Anderson had heard a
few months before in Birmingham, and it seemed
now to chill the blood in his veins.
Enduring it as long as he could, he opened the
80
ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
office door, stepped aside and looking- at Anthoin
at the same time pointing- to the door, he said,
“Go, g-o I say!”
Anthoin seemed to control his mirth with
difficulty, and manag-ed to say, “I prefer you would
call an officer.”
There was something- so strang-e in his voice,
that Anderson closed the door; and seating himself
some distance from the intruder, he asked, “Well
what do you want? Is it money?” .
“Now you are becoming yourself again,” re-
plied Anthoin, his laugh giving place to a sober
countenance. “I have sufficient money to last me
for a while. What I want, is simply a conversa-
tion with you. There are few people that I have
taken a fancy to, at first sight, and you are one of
the few. Of all the millions of men and women in
this world, you are the only one I call my friend,
and you are the only one I am a friend to. I am
believed to be a murderer, and you are the only one
I care to disuade from that belief.”
“Then you did not kill your wife?” asked the
doctor, his face losing some of its sternness, and
moving his chair nearer the fire.
“Yes, I killed her,” he was answered. “But I
did not murder her. It all came out of my telling
my stor}^ to you and Mr. Holland.”
“I think I understand it now. She listened
when 3"ou related your stor^^, and afterwards up-
braided 3^ou and 3’ou killed her. But that was
murder. Wasn’t it?”
“Yes, that would have been murder if I had killed
her for that; but it did not happen that wa.j. She
listened to m}^ stor}^ as ^’ou have said. She remain-
ZEI.DEK, THE devil’s DAUGHTEK.
81
ed at the door of the room all through the night,
as she told me afterward, vowing vengeance on the
men who dared to handle her name so lightly. She
determined to kill me, then Holland, and then her-
self. You, she had taken a fancy^to, so she was
not going to wreak her vengance upon you until
after her death, when she intended to take control
of you as she once did of me, first to madden you;
then to destroy your body; and finally to rule your
soul in hell. These intentions are worthy of the
fiend she is. She attempted to carry out her de-
signs with me, but I out-witted her, and sent her
back to the infernal region.
“For a week or two she said nothing about
having heard m}^ narrative; then one night, as we
sat before the fire in our room, she accused me of
infidelity, and told me of listening to us on that
stormy night, and what resolves she had formed.
Suddenl}’' rising from her seat, with shrieks and
oaths she dashed at me, brandishing a long bladed
knife. I would have hypnotized her and spared
her life, but I had not time, for her will was nearly
as strong as mine. I only had time to spring to
my feet, grasp the chair in which I had been sitting
and with it fell her to the floor. I looked to see
her get up somewhat subdued, but she never
moved. You know the rest. She was dead. I
had brained her.
“I was arrested, tried and convicted for her
murder. I did not defend myself, but on the night
before the execution day, I hypnotized the man who
brought my supper and made him leave my cell
door unbarred. Then I left barring the door be-
hind me. I hy’pnotized all the guards I met, and
82
ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
SO passed them without their knowings it. I think
I must have hypnotized over a dozen people before
I felt myself to be free. I waited too until I had
changed my appearance before I released them
from the power of my will. You see doctor, I am
not a murderer.”
“My friend, forgive me for calling you a mur-
derer! You know that appearances were against
you.” And Anderson held out his had to Anthoin.
The latter took it and shook it warmly, saying
as he did so, “You called me friend. I am glad of
it. And as to forgiving you there is nothing to
forgive. Had there been I would not have laughed
as I did. I know you thought it strange, and that
is what I intended. I’ll tell you why I acted so.
If I had not laughed and acted mysteriously you
might have called an officer and that would not
have suited me at all.”
“Then it was only a bluff?”
“Exactly.”
Thus they conversed; though all the time An-
derson could see the eyes of Zeldee glaring fiercely
at him. He told Anthoin about them and that
they nearly drove him mad at times, adding, that
although she had failed to avenge herself on the
others, she was not failing in her vengeance on
him. Anthoin replied that he had known it for
some time, having learned it in that mysterious
way in which he and Antonette had known the
doctor and preacher were coming to their house in
Birmingham on that stormy night.
As they talked the time flew by until the bells
rang out the hour of mid-night. Then their conver-
sation ceased, and Anthoin — strong minded man as
ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
83
he was — felt a chill creep over him and he shudder-
ed; while Anderson seemed to sink into a stupor,
thoug-h conscious of everything- around him. The
door remained closed and the windows barred, yet,
there in their midst stood Zeldee. ‘
A scornful smile curled her lips as she looked
at Anthoin. “So you have escaped my vengeance,”
she said. “Well so be it, but you shall have my
curses. There is one, though, (pointing at Ander-
son) that cannot escape me.” Then to him she
said, “You hear that do you? You escaped me
to-night, but you cannot do so for long. You love
Gertrude Robson now, but you will forget her and
love me. Hal Ha! Ha! Love her a week, love me
forever.”
Turning from him, she bent her flashing eyes
upon her former husband, and shaking her jeweled
spear at him, while fire seemed to jump from its
point, she shrieked, “I curse you! I curse you! I
curse you!”
Then she vanished. But with a baffled look
upon her face; for Anthoin had answered her curses
with a laugh.
The doctor’s stupor left him as she vanished,
and for a long time the friends sat and talked about
her strange visit to them. An hour later Anthoin
left, and as he shook Anderson’s hand he said, “We
may never meet again on earth in our present
forms, but our souls will meet some day. So until
we meet again, farewell.”
Anderson remained at his office all that night.
He knew he could not sleep if he went to his room,
there were too many thoughts in his mind — thoughts
that had never entered there before. He had al-
84
ZKLDEK, the DEViE’S DAUGHTER.
ways supposed life to be simply existence; nothing-
more than the activity to the body, that when the
body ceased to move and the heart ceased to beat,
then life was destroyed. He had listened to An-
thoin’s story, on the nig-ht he saw him for the first
time, because it interested him, liking-, as he did,
anything fanciful or wierd, though he believed in
nothing supernatural. The narrative, however,
made a deep impression on him; and for a short
while he wondered if it really could be true, that
man had a soul. It sounded more reasonable the
way Anthoin explained it, than the way most
preachers preached of it, but he soon dismissed the
subject from his mind as mere bosh. But as he sat
in his office chair through the remainder of the
night, after Anthoin had gone and all was quiet,
he thought and believed in an immortal soul.
It never occured to him that his visitor might
have been a magician, and the apparition, noth-
ing but one of his magical tricks, and her voice,
but that of a ventriloquist. Zeldee to him was
real. Had he not been seeing her eyes for weeks?
Had he not seen her form earlier in the night?
And had she not lured him nearly to his destruc-
tion? There was no doubt of it, Zeldee was a living
soul, and he thought, “If there is one soul, then
there must be others.’^ He believed ever}^ word of
Anthoin ^s wonderful story. Why should he not?
He was having the same experience that Anthoin
formerly had.
These thoughts of Zeldee did not fill his mind
entirely. He thought of Gertrude; and realized,
that he was in love for the first time in his life..
“Gertrude Robson,” Zeldee had called her, and he
ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
85
firmly believed it to be her name. He also was in-
debted to Zeldee for awakening- in his mind the
fact that he loved. But still he detested that vile
soul. The more he loved the Ang-elic Gertrude the
more he hated the Demoness Zeldee.
And so the nig-ht passed slowly away. One
moment the doctor would smile as he thought of
the little lady, who had taken possession of his
heart, and then an ang-ry look would come into the
eyes that were ever before him, and the smile
would chang-e into a frown; and he would shudder
as he would think he could never enjoy the love of
Gertrude while those eyes haunted him.
While he thoug-ht of her, Gertrude thought of
him. She and Edna occupied the same bed; and
long after the pretty widow, with her breast full of
hope for the morrow, had laughed herself to sleep,
she remained awake thinking of the man she loved,
and puzzling her brain to imagine what really
caused his strange conduct. She felt there was
some great danger threatening him, and gladly she
would have risked her life, and even her honor, if
need be, to protect him. But what could she do?
Long she lay there gazing at the ceiling above
her; until the fire was extinguished and the room
became chilled. She had said a prayer, not pra3"ed,
before she retired. Who could have prayed with
Edna laughing all the time. She did not feel satis-
fied, so toward morning she slipped from the bed
and knelt by its side, in the cold, and prayed:
“Oh Father! protect William, shield him from
danger.”
When she arose from her knees she felt relieved.
She had placed him in the care of her God, who
86
ZKI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
had never failed her. She quietly lay down ag-ain
by the side of Bdna; and fell asleep in a short
time.
What a contrast there was between those two
women? One of them hoped, on the morrow to se-
cure a man’s heart for a toy, perhaps, to cast it
aside when tired of it, reg’ardless of the pain she
caused. “Toys were made to break,” she thoug’ht,
“Then why not break that toy?” The other hoped
and prayed that, that heart would never know
pain; and was willing- to shield it at any cost.
That heart belong-ed to Anderson; and each of
the women thoug-ht she loved him.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PI-ilY GOES OU-
Dr. Anderson called at Mrs. Flemming-’s, the
following- day, and found her g-reatly improved;
thoug-h he had but a slig-ht recollection of her con-
dition on the previous evening-. She was sitting- in
her cozy sitting- room when he was shown in by
Caroline, and received him with her most winning-
smile. She arose as he entered, bowed g-racefully
and said, “Oh doctor! I am indebted to you so
much for saving- my reason. They tell me, that
when you came last night, I was a raving maniac.
Words cannot tell how thankful to you I am.”
And in those mocking eyes before his mental
vision, there came a merry glitter; for Zeldee could
ZEI.DEK, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK.
87
read the scheming widow’s thoughts, if he could
not.
He remained nearly an hour to Edna’s intense
gratication, presuming, as she did, that she had
infatuated him; and that he could scarcely tear
himself away. The truth of the matter was, he
stayed as long as propriety would allow hoping to
see Gertrude. But he was doomed to be disappoint-
ed; for Gertrude did not show herself; though she
watched him from an upper window, as he walked
away, and she sighed and placed her hand over her
heart as though to ease the pain there.
The next day he came again and remained
longer than on the day before. But still Gertrude
was invisible, and he left mentally swearing at the
torturing eyes before him, that seemed to laugh
and deride him. Again Gertrude watched him
from the upper window, as he left. But this time
instead of only sighing, she burst into tears; for
she thoug'ht, “He loves Edna and can never love
me.” If she had known the truth, those tears
would have been tears of joy.
The following day the doctor called earlier
than usual; for he was determined to see Gertrude
if possible, and to his great delight he met her in
the reception hall. She blushed, though he knew
not why, bowed politely; and would have hurried
away; but he stopped her and said, “Gertrude —
Miss Robson I mean. Why do you keep yourself
hid so?” Caroline, who had admitted him, dis-
creetly left them alone.
“Can’t 3^ou imagine wh^r I come here?” The
doctor’s voice became tender; and he took possess-
ion of her hands, which she attempted to with-
88
ZELDBE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER.
draw, but he held them fast. “Mrs. Flemming’ is
well, and does not need my services, and yet I con-
tinue to come. Why? Can’t you g’uess?” He
paused a moment, as though waiting for her to an-
swer; but she only hung her head, and feebly tried
to take her hands from him. “I came hoping to
get a glimpse of you. Kver since our little walk
and pleasant conversation, pleasant to me at least,
I have longed to see you again.”
Her hands were motionless, the flush deepened
on her cheek, and she looked up as she asked, “To
see me?”
“Yes Gertrude, to see you. May I call you
Gertrude?” He looked down at her as he spoke,
with love beaming in his face; and he almost lost
sight of Zeldees flashing eyes as he did so.
“You may if you wish,” she answered. “It
will seem natural to you, I suppose, as the friend
of whom you were thinking when I entered your
office a few nights ago, is named Gertrude.”
Anderson smiled as he remembered the excuse
he had made for calling her name, and determined
to make a clear breast of it, “That friend was
you,” he said. “Don’t you remember ever seeing
me before that night?”
The flush faded from Gertrude’s cheek, and
left her pale and trembling. But she said nothing;
and Anderson continued. “It was not the first
time I had seen you, or had spoken to you. About
a year ago you entered my office; we conversed for
a while and when you left you — ”
“Oh don’t!” she cried, interrupting him.
“Don’t sa}" it. Please don’t.” And again she
tried to remov^e her hands from his. But he held
ZEI.DEE, the devil’s daughter.
89
them firmly.
“Let me keep them,” he pleaded. “Do not
take them away. I want to tell you why you en-
tered my office, and how much I have thoug’ht of
you since then.”
But at that interesting- moment, when Ander-
son was g’oing’ to breathe love, with sincerity, into
a fair woman’s ears for the first time; and when
Gertrude’s cup of happiness was to overfiow, Mrs.
Flemming-, who had been reading- in her sitting-
room, and had heard a murmur of voices in the
hall, opened the sitting- room door and stood before
them. They were confused, and she — well, if a
thunderbolt had struck the house, she would
scarcely have been more shocked. There was the
doctor, “Her doctor,” as she had called him once,
holding- the hands of her friend and g-uest;
bowing- over her in a familiar way; and
looking- at her as thoug-h she was the dearest
person in all the world to him. It was an
outrag-e that the woman she had called her
friend should play her false, in her own house too.
Why did she, who was such a model of womanly
virtue, sneak about and meet her (Mrs. Flemming-’s)
lover on the sly like this? If she wanted him for a
lover, why didn’t she come into the sitting- room,
where he could talk to both of them, and not way-
lay him in the passag-e? It was unlady-like. Thus
reasoned Mrs. Flemming-, who we will have to ex-
cuse; for her vanity had passed through a severe
trial.
“Dr. Anderson,” she began, in a cold, sarcas-
tic voice. “I think I have recovered sufficiently to
dispense with your services. Send me your bill,
90
ZELDEE, THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER.
and I will send you a check for the amount. Ger-
trude,” she added, turning to her, “A lady
should be careful in her conduct with a gentleman.
This is no place for love making. You had better
come into the sitting room.”
It was evident to the doctor and Gertrude, that
he had been snubbed. Gertrude Robson was no
weak bit of milk and water gruel. She would have
angerly answered Edna’s insulting words; but she
had long since learned to govern her temper, and
knew it would be more lady-like to remain silent.
She simpl}" extended her hand to the doctor.
(He had dropped both of them, when Mrs.
Flemming appeared.) He grasped it in his strong
one and shook it, giving a gentle pressure ere he re-
leased it.
“Good bye,” he said. “We will meet again.”
“I hope so,” she truthfully replied. “Good
bye.”
And then he bowed politely, though it seemed
half mockingly, to the widow and left. It was
then, that the full force of Edna’s anger broke
forth. She accused Gertrude of many ridiculous
things; and raged on until completely out of
breath.
The little lady remained silent until the end of
the tirade; then she quietly said, “If it was neces-
sary for me to defend myself, I would call your at-
tention to the fact that it was I who brought this
man to you when I could easily have kept him
away. I left him alone to you yesterday and the
day before; and would have done so today, but
could not keep out of his way. I had no idea be-
fore, that he wanted to see me. Although I have
ZElvDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK. 91
been loving* him for a year, (you see, you have not
the first claim on him as you say) I had no thoug*ht
of his loving* me. But you don’t believe what I
say, and it is immaterial to me. After what you
have just said, I don’t think we can be friends any
more. I will g*et my thing*s and leave. No, don’t
say anything* else,” “as Edna seemed about to
speak. “Let us part in peace if not as friends.’’
Ten minutes later she departed. They, who
had been friends for nearly a score of years, were
separated at last, and by a barrier that would
never be removed.
An hour later Dr. Anderson received the fol-
lowing* note, broug*ht by a special messeng*er:
“My Dear Dr. Anderson: —
You really cannot know how sorr}'
I am for my rudeness. What made me act so, I
must not tell you; perhaps you can imag*ine. If
you will come this evening* at five o’clock and take
tea with me, I am sure I can make you forg*ive me.
Please come.
Yours Truly,
Edna Hale Flemming*.
A smile curled the lips of the doctor, as he
tipped the messeng*er, and said, “There is no an-
swer.”
Then turning* to the fire he placed the missive
upon it. If he had never seen Gertrude Robson he
would have accepted the invitation to tea and have
had all the fun with the widow he could — but with
the fair haired, blue eyed, dainty little woman in
his heart; and Zeldee’s eyes before him, it was
different. So the charming* Edna had to drink her
tea alone; if she cared for it at all.
92
ZEI.DEE, THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER.
I
CHAPTER VII.
IIT ZEI-DEE^S POWER.
Man’s destiny has always been a mystery, and ^
will always remain so. Man’s future must sta}^ in ^
obscurity. There are records of men’s lives being* )
laid out before them, and the future fulfilling the ]
prophecy; but it is more often the case, that the j
prophet is a false one. So it is that very few men j
would care to have their future unfolded to them, )
or would believe it, if it was revealed. j
Julius Caesar smiled at the warning of the -
soothsayer to “Beware the ides of March,” and 1
yet the sharp blade of Brutus together with those ■
of the other assassins let out his heart’s blood at !
the foot of Pompey’s statue. The vision of the ^
guillotine which was shown to Marie Antoinette by j
a magician, as the novelist says, when she made '
her triumphant bridal entry into France, was no j
doubt, soon forgotten; and yet the keen edge of j
that bloody instrument lowered her proud head to :
a level with the populace; and her husband’s had
dropped into the basket months before. It is said j
that Lord Byron was foretold events in his life by j
a Gyps)^; and other great men have had their ;
futures pictured with accuracy. But they are all ;
exceptions. Foreknowledge of this description is i
generally incorrect. ■
But be it so or not, if some one had told Dr. |
Anderson, that it would be months, and that he
would nearly pass into the jaws of death, before he
ZELDEE, THE devil’s DAUGHTEK.
93
a^ain saw Gertrude Robson, he would not have be-
lieved it.
After destroying- the note received from Mrs.
Flemming-, he stood for a few moments as though
lost in thought, then he left his office with some
definite purpose in view, it seemed. But a change
came over him when he reached the street. He
wished to go in one direction, but an irresistible
force seemed to draw him another. Strive as he
would, he went not whither he wanted; but follow-
ed the ruling power — that power was Zeldee’s eyes.
He had lost control of his mind; he could not gov-
ern his thoughts. What he did was not his desire,
but the wish of Zeldee. He passed old acquaint-
ances on the street, but if he saw them he did not
recognize them. He entered a bank; and although
the cashier was an intimate friend of his, he made
no reply to his cheery, “Good day.” He filled out
a check for three thousand dollars and presented it;
and even though it over drew his account for several
hundred dollars, it was cashed without comment,
he being so well known.
From the bank he went to a railway passenger
station, and procured a ticket to New York. There
was no northbound train leaving for several hours,
and 3^et he waited. His manner was so strange,
that people commented freely upon it; but he
seemed not to hear them. He was recognized by
men and women; but they were as strangers to
him.
A newspaper reporter accosted him and said,
“Are 3’ou g*oing to take a trip. Dr. Anderson?’’
But his onl^" reply was a vacant stare.
When the leaving time of his train arrived he
94
ZELDKE, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
entered one of the coaches, and seated himself with
a mechanical movement. The other passeng’ers
watched him curiously, and said, “A strange man.”
And indeed he was. Going on an unknown jour-
ney without bag or baggage. Was ever like heard
of before?
While Zeldee’s power over Anderson increased,
the woman who loved him dearer than her life,
was praying for him. Gertrude Robson had great
faith in prayer, and had stemmed the tide of man}'
a girlish trouble by its aid.
While the night express, with Anderson
aboard, was speeding northward, Gertrude seemed
to have a presentment that all was not right with
the man she loved. What it was she could not
tell; but there was something wrong she felt sure.
Again and again she prayed, still that comfort,
that usually followed her prayers, did not
come. She did not sleep that night. As the hours
dragged slowly by, the presentment of evil befall-
ing her beloved weighed more heavily upon her
breast. The almost sleepless night she had passed
at Mrs. Flemming’s was nothing to compare with
this; then she received comfort from prayer, now
she did not; though she prayed as she had never
prayed before, and her tears fell like rain.
But when morning came her eyes were dry,
though tear stains were upon her pillow. Her lips
were parched and on each cheek a bright red spot
was glowing. She tossed deliriously upon her bed
in the throes of fever. For weeks she lay there, be-
tween life and death. Her mother, and excellent
nurse, remained almost constantly by her side, only
leaving when it was absolutely necessary to get a
ZKLDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
95
little sleep.
The old family physician would often look
jJTave, shake his head and say, “If we could but
find this William for whom she calls so often, there
mig-ht be some hope for her. But as it is — ” and
then he would sigh and shake his head again.
There was one person who could have inform-
ed them of this William, that was Mrs. Edna Flem-
ming, and doubtless she would have done so had
not her vanity been trampled on again. Hearing
of Gertrude’s illness she pocketed her pride and
trying to forget the supposed treachery of the fair
girl, she promptly called to see her former friend
and was shown into the sick room. But it had
such a bad effect on the patient, throwing her into
a nearly ungovernable fit of raving, that the doc-
tor advised that the widow be excluded from the
room thereafter. And so they lost that chance of
learning who William was, though they did not
know it.
Youth triumphed at last, however, and one
bright spring day Gertrude accompanied by her
mother was moved to a farm house in the northern
part of Virginia where the bracing country air put
new life into her frame.
Once she had asked “Mother, did a Dr. Ander-
son call to inquire after me while I was sick?”
And her mother answered “No.”
A sad, weary expression came into her face and
she sighed. Had he neglected her? She loved
him and could not believe it. Some harm had be-
fallen him she felt sure and she longed for her
strength, and the time when she would return to
her home so she could learn something of him.
THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE.
CHAPTER I.
TXZS
It was no palace. It was only a spacious
modern dwelling, furnished after the modern fash-
ion with the best that money could buy. It was
planned by an American architect and hence was
of American design.
Its surroundings, the magnificent shade trees;
the well trimmed shrubbery; the nicely kept lawn,
the summer house and the other buildings all com-
bined to show, there was some one on the premises
of refined tastes. It was called “The American’s
Palace” by the people of the village near by, not
because it was palatial in appearance but because
it was far superior to any house for miles around.
This house, or palace, which ever you please, was
situated in France near the river Rhone. If it is
there today or not I cannot say, it may have been
demolished by storm or fire, but if it is there it is
in the hands of strangers; while the man who
had it built and who surrounded himself by all of
its luxury is sleeping in the village grave yard.
One bright spring morning two men were con-
ZKLDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
97
versing- in the villag-e tavern. One of them was a
tavern loung-er, the other a strang-er in the villag-e.
The loung-er was like the rest of the villag-ers, only
a little more indolent and fond of g-ossip, and as
the tavern was the place to hear all of the latest
news he made it his headquarters. It was a rare
thing- for a stranger to enter that village, so when
one appeared he was eyed as though he was a wild
beast of some kind 'in a cage, being paraded for the
benefit of the vilagers; and whoever was lucky
enough to be spoken to by him, was the center of
attraction for weeks, he having to repeat over
and over the few words said by the stranger. So
the lounger felt greatly honored when the old gen-
tleman, for the stranger in this instance looked at
least seventy years old, began to question him con-
cerning what few things of interest there were in
that locality.
After the conversation had progressed for
some time the stranger asked, “Do you know a man
in this locality named Robert Bouman?”
“The American who lives in the Palace?”
queried the lounger.
“He’s an American. But does he really live
in a Palace?”
“Well not exactly, but it is called ‘The Ameri-
can’s Palace.’ ”
Although the stranger’s first question concern-
ing Bouman had not been answered directly, he con-
cluded by the others talk that he knew something
of the American. So he asked “What kind of a
man is this fellow?”
“I can’t say,” cautiously replied the lounger.
“He may be alright, but some don’t like him. I
98
ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
haven’t seen much of him myself.”
The old gentleman eyed the fellow narrowly
and detected at once his reserve, but determined
to draw him out. He made a false statement at a
hazard; and to his delight, the glib tongue of
the man was loosened, and he learned all that he
cared to know concerning Robert Bouman.
“I have heard,” said he, “That this man is
very wicked. In fact I know a thing or two that
he would not care for many people to know, and
I could take him from the false position he is
occupying, if only I knew what opinion his neigh-
bors have of him.”
As we have said the statement was false but
as the lounger did not know it he gave the stranger
all the information he desired.
If that is what you want, there is no one who
can tell you the opinion his neighbors have of him
better than I. You have heard right, he is a very
wicked man and his neighbors know it. He is
feared and hated by almost every body for miles
around. Being very wealthy he does anything he
pleases. It is a common occurance for a man’s
daughter to be kidnapped, or his wife be lured
away from home by him; and if the irate father or
husband goes to the palace to regain the lost one,
he is set upon by the villian’s servants, beat and
kicked shamefully, and often chased from the place
with dogs. Sometimes too, a man is found near the
place, bruised and lifeless, and it is usually a near
relative of a woman he has lately decoyed. But
this is not all, often when a woman resists his en-
treaties his treatment of her is too horrible to men-
tion.”
ZElvDKE, The devil’s daughter.
99
“Is there no law to punish him? Why don’t
they arrest him?” Asked the strang-er.
“That was tried long- ag-o,” replied the loung-er.
“But French justice is like American justice, on the
side of the one who makes the larg-est bribe. You
can imag-ine monsieur the opinion of his neig-hbors
in reg-ard to his character. Where he g-ot his
money no one knows; it is the opionion of some
that it was a leg-acy from the Devil; but if this is
correct or not, he uses it for the Devil’s work.”
“Well that opinoin is wrong-,” said the old man
turning- toward the door. “I know the source of
his wealth, and the devil had nothing- to do with it.
I am much oblig-hed to you Monsieur for your in-
formation, but I must be g’oing- now. Then he
passed into the one street of the villag-e.
Perhaps our readers have recog-nized him.
The dye that was once upon his hair has been re-
moved leaving- his locks silvery white; he has g-rown
no beard upon his wrinkled face, and his limbs are
suple as when we saw him last. It was Marcus
Anthoin and he was in quest of the “Philosopher’s
Stone.”
He had once told Dr. William Anderson and
the Rev. George Holland that he would get the
stone. How, he did not know, but he would get
it. And as he left the tavern and passed into the street
he said to himself, “If he was a good man I might
have some compunction in robbing him of his
treasure. But as it is, well, ‘Bet the devil take
care of his own.’ ”
Henri Gailor was a young man who had left
his home and gone to Paris to seek fame and for-
tune. Although neither had been successfully
100
ZEI^BEK, the DEVIE’S daughter.
achieved, he had g-ained enoug-h of each for the
people in his native villag-e, who listened eag-erly to
every account of him that reached them, to think
he was illustrious. And many were the tales told
of his boyhood by the old men and women, while
the young- ones stood around and listened, wishing-
that they too could become famous and have the
ag-ed g-randsires and g-randames tell pretty episodes
of their young-er days.
“A man hath no honor in his own country,” is
true to some extent, but it is not true of the French
villag-ers. Let one of their number leave home
and win fame to no matter how small a deg-ree, his
former associates will load him with honors.
When Marcus Anthoin left the tavern and
passed into the street of the little villag-e, he found
the inhabitants of the place flocking- into the street
also. They were g-reatly excited and happy in the
extreme. Henri Gailor had unexpectedly returned
and the youths of the villiag-e had him upon their
shoulders, proudly parading- him about the streets.
He protested vigorously, declaring that he must go
home and greet his aged father and mother but
they would not hear of it until they were through
with him. Then one of their number called for a
speech, the cry was taken up by others and even the
older people standing near clapped their hands and
joined in the cry. An empty box was soon pro-
cured, and he was placed upon it while cry after
cry of “Speech, speech,” rent the air.
“My friends,” he began, and he smiled as he
looked into the joyous faces crowded around him.
“I am no speech maker, but out of regard for the
kindness you have shown me I will try to talk for
ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK.
101
a short while, and then I am sure 3’ou will let me
g-o to see m}^ parents.”
Shouts of “Yes,” “Yes,” answered him; but
the^" knew full well, there was another, besides his
parents, he wished to see, and that was the fairest
maiden of whom the village boasted, and his
promised bride.
“Long- }^ears ag-o,” he continued, “when the
earth was not crowded with men, but those that
lived were happ)' and lived for centuries, a father
called his sons to his side and said: ‘The time will
come m)^ sons when men will value an hour as you
value a day.’ That time has come dear friends. If
we waist an hour now it is more disastrous in its
consequences than if those ancients waisted a day.
At the foot of the Hill of Life ^^ou loiter and pluck
the gay flowers of pleasure. You smile as 3^ou
look at the climbers toiling above 3^ou and say:
‘There is plenty" of time for me to start later on.’
You are deluding 3’ourselves. How old are 3"OU?
Twent3"-five or six some of you say. Then can’t
3’ou realize that a third if not half of your life is
past.
‘If up a hill 3'ou start at earh^ morn.
You’ll reach the top before the evening tide.
But if you wait until the hours have flown.
You’ll pass the night upon the mountain side.” ’
“Well said,” muttered Anthoin as he turned
awa3'. “But let him entertain his friends, I have
other business. I must get possession of the phil-
osopher’s stone, and then I will have reached the
mountain peak of wealth if not fame.
So he left the crowd of happy people, and pass-
ed down the street in the direction of the Ameri-
102
ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
can’s Palace. On the out-skirts of the village he
stopped, a woman was sitting in a cottage door,
weeping bitterly, and by her side was a little girl
weeping also. Anthoin noticed at once that the
cottage and its surroundings were neat and clean,
showing that its occupants were not indolent.
“Perhaps these people are in need of food,” he
thought. “If so they deserve help. I’ll speak to
them.”
The woman raised her head when he stopped,
but the child kept hers buried in her apron and con-
tinued to sob aloud. Anthoin raised his hat,
bowed politel}’' and said, “Madam it appears that
you are in trouble. If I can assist you in any wa3^
I shall be glad to do so.”
The woman hesitated a moment then stifling
her sobs she said: “I am afraid Monsieur you can-
not help me.”
“Perhaps I can do more than you suppose, ’’ re-
plied the old man, still thinking she was in destitute
circumstances and too proud to own it.
“Oh Monsieur I am a poor widow woman, and
had only two children to love and now one of them
is gone.” And she covered her face with her hands
again, adding her wailings to those of the child.
“Is she dead?” asked Anthoin.
“No, no, I would she were, rather than this.
Monsieur she has been kidnapped by that wicked
American who lives over there,” and she pointed
in the direction of the American’s palace.
“I understand now. I have heard of this vil-
lain,” said Anthoin, thinking at the same time,
perhaps, the daughter might have gone of her own
free will.
ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. IQiJ
But the woman continued, “He has often tried to
entice her by offers of g-old, but she repulsed him
every time and came and tbld me of his insulting
offers. Poor girl she is only seventeen and has no one
to protect her but myself. But what could I do? Her
father is dead, she has no brother aud her affiance
is awa}’ in Paris. With no one to help me I could not
hope to do what strong men of the village had failed
to do, resist this monster and protect his victim from
him. Early this morning while I was at a neigh-
bor’s he came with his servants and stole my Marie.
You see this scar?” and she pulled the child’s hand
away from her face, showing a bruise near the left
temple. “The dear child held fast to her sister and
the brute struck her here and felled her to the
floor.”
Anthoin’s face got white with rage and it was
with difficulty that he suppressed his fury. “That
is enough,” he said, “I am going to this dog’s ken-
nel and unless he releases your daughter immedi-
ately I’ll tear his smoking heart from his vile body
and throw it to the hounds!”
He turned away abruptly and stalked off once
more in the direction of the American’s palace.
The woman called her thanks after him but
she had little hope of his success, so she reseated
herself on the door step and began to weep again.
If she had known the man her eyes would have been
dry, and she would have been looking for her
daughter, knowing* she would surely return.
An hour later Henri Gailor came joyously
toward the cottage, but stopped suddenly at the
sight of tears. Marie was his promised bride, and
he had come expecting her happy greeting, and
104
ZEIvDEJE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
this was the sig'ht he saw. The mother in a few
words told him the fate of her daug'hter.
He stood as one dazed for a short while then
roused himself and said, “Marie, My Marie g'one?
My sweetheart lost? But he shall g'ive her up.”
Then dashing- into the cottag-e he returned with a
long- bladed knife in his hand. “It is better than
nothing-,” he cried as he passed the woman and
sped away in the direction that Marcus Anthoin
had taken.
CHATPER II.
TIXS OP* 2«^SRZZ3STZX SZ.ZXTS.
When Marcus Anthoin related the story of his
marvelous adventures to Anderson and Holland, he
simply mentioned to them that when he was Meri-
deth Kline he was a woman hater, saying- it was the
same old tale of blue eyes and sunny curls, and
then she loved another. If he had said, that al-
thoug-h he was never married, he had lived with
that blue eyed and sunny haired woman for three
years, it would have been more correct. They had
one child who was named after her mother. Clara
Kline was a pretty infant and bid fair to be like
her mother when she reached maturit}^ The elder
Clara took the child with her when she deserted
him for another man.
One nig-ht while searching in her trunk for
some lost article she found a long forgotten Bible
ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
105
which had been g-iven to her in her g-irlhood by
her mother. A flood of memory broug-ht back the
scene of the old home, her g-entle mother, her ag-ed
father, and her brother and sisters. Tears filled
her eyes as she opened the book, and throug-h the
tears she beg-an to read. It was the story of the
adulterous woman broug-ht to Christ. And when
she reached the part where Jesus said, “Go and sin
no more,” it seemed as thoug'h the words had
been spoken to her and she determined then and
there, to leave her life of sin. Taking- her child
she went to a western city and secured employ-
ment as a seamstress, and in the town there was
no one more pious than Mrs. Kline, as she called
herself. Merideth Kline never knew what became
of Clara and her child, and so did not mention them
when he related his narrative to the two friends on
that nig-ht of wind and snow, except the allusion to
“blue eyes and sunny curls.”
Thirty years after the woman’s reform, her
daug-hter was sittings in a handsomely furnished
room in a house in France, near the river Rhone.
She was the unhappy wife of the owner of the
American’s palace. We say unhappy, for althoug-h
she was surrounded with every luxury, her lot was
one not to be envied. She loved her husband once,
she thoug-ht, but his conduct had long- since smoth-
ered the amorous flame. No doubt she was the
only being- with whom he came in contact who was
not treated brutally by him at some time or other.
He was always g-entle to her, therefore she could
not complain of him on that score. It was his
neg-lig-ence that stifled her affections. As she sat
at her piano and let her fing-ers wander aimlessly
106
ZELDEE, ;.THE ..DEViE’S DAUGHTER.
over the keys, she thoug’ht of her happy childhood
passed in the United States of Americay, . and she
sighed like a bird. in a gilded cage, for the palace,
was her prison.
A cough aroused her from her revery,- turning
quickly she came face to face with a man.
It was Marcus Anthoin. He was standing, hat
in hand, near the center of the room. He had seen
the lady through the window, and at once recog-
nized her face as one he had seen long ago. See-
ing no servants he entered the house and passed
into the room without being announced.
As she turned when he coughed, he bowed low
before her and said, ere she had time to speak:
“Good morning, are you or were you named
Clara Kline?” He did not speak in French. He
could not mistake the American appearance of the
lady, and spoke accordingly.
His presence in the room had frightened her at
first, but when he pronounced her maiden name in
her native tongue, she felt more at ease, and though
her voice trembled a little, she answered quietly:
“That was my name before I married Mr. Bouman.
Did you ever know me or my parents?”
“I knew you as an infant. I was your father’s
best friend.”
“That being the case” she said, “I am indeed
glad to see you Mr. — .”
“Anthoin.” And he smiled as he supplied the
name. A smile of a pretty woman and of an old man
is always pleasant; so when he smiled Clara
Bouman felt drawn to him, and it seemed that she
had known him always.
“Pray be seated,” she continued, “A friend of
ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
107
my father, who alas, was never known by me, shall
be my friend also, if he will.”
She extended her hand to him which he took
and raised to his lips. A rush of fatherly love fill-
ed his heart but he controlled his emotion and said,
“It will make an old man like me happy to be your
friend.”
He seated himself, and soon the two were con-
versing- like old acquaintances. Anthoin learned
from her that she was not happy; that her husband’s
vile deeds were known to her and pained her a
g-reat deal and that she would have left the place
long- ag-o, to return to her mother in the United
States, but she knew that she was watched, and
any attempt to escape would be frustrated; and in
all probability it would make her husband treat
her as cruelly as he did the others. The con-
versation continued nearly an hour. When
Anthoin arose to leave he told Clara part of his busi-
ness there. (He did not mention the philosopher’s
stone.) He told her that her husband had that
day abducted a young- g-irl from the villag-e, and
that he had come there to make him liberate her.
“Dont attempt it,” she cried in a frig-htened
voice, catching- hold of his arm as thoug-h to detain
him. “When he has done a deed of this kind he
keeps his servants, six powerful men, on g-uard in a
room back of this, which is connected to his room
of infamy by a private stair. “If any one attempts
any interference with their master he is brutally
treated by them and sometimes, I am afraid, they
leave him lifeless.”
“They shall not leave me lifeless,” said the
old man, taking- her hands gently from his arm and
108
ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK.
holding' them in his. Neither will they be brutal
to me. I have a passport to your husband’s pres-
ence, a letter of introduction from an old friend of
his. Besides I could conquer twice six men. But
tell me, is there no other wa}' to reach his room
except through the one guarded by his servants?”
She hesitated a moment and then answered.
“None, not even by a ladder to his windows; for
they are securely barred.”
“Then I must ascend the stair,” he said as he
released her hands, “Good bye; it may be that I
will see you again, but if I do not, don’t forget the
old man who, though he has seen so little of you,
loves you as a father loves his child.”
Stooping he lightly kissed her forehead and
left the room.
When he had gone, Clara began to pace rest-
lessly to and fro with a troubled look upon her
face, wondering if she had done right or wrong
in telling the old man a lie. She decided at last
that she had done right in keeping her promise;
for she had promised never to reveal her knowledge
of the sliding pannel leading to her husband’s
room, through which she used to enter, but
through which she had not passed for years. As she
thought of it, her rights as a wife seemed to rise be-
fore her, and more than ordinary compassion for
the poor girl in his power filled her breast. Sud-
denly she ceased her pacing, stood motionless for
a moment, and then with head erect she left the
room, fifteen minutes after Anthoin had done so.
She had promised not to reveal the secret door,
but had not promised not to use it; and she deter-
mind once more to assert her rights and strive to
ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
109
save the unfortunate g-irl imprisoned in the room
from her villianous husband, and perhaps she
could protect the brave old man if he put himself
in danger. But like the mother of Marie she did
not know the power of Marcus Anthoin.
CHAPTER III.
r'TTiT Auc r'oi-x--5r.
When Marcus Anthoin walked into the midst
of the six stalwart servants of Robert Bouman, they
sprang toward him like wild beasts springing upon
their prey. But he laughed tantalizingly as he
waved them back, and to their query of who he
was and what he wanted, replied, “It makes no dif-
ference, I want to see your master.”
“Well you can’t see him,” said the fiercest look-
ing of the men, who appeared to be the leader.
“Can’t see him eh? We’ll see about that,” and
Anthoin laughed again; but this time in that
strange, demonical way that had so frightened An-
derson and Holland some time before. It had its
effect now upon these craven bullies, and their
fright increased when he took a seat by the table,
on which were glasses and a bottle of whiskey, and
filled a glass with the fiery liquor, offered it to the
spokesman and said, “Drink this Bill Bush, and
maybe you will be more polite.”
The men were all Americans of the lowest
class, reared in the slums of the largest cities; and
110
ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
for reasons best known to themselves, prefered to
remain out of the bounds of the United States; and
even in France passed under assumed names.
Bill Bush’s dark countenance became darker
still when his name was called — the name he
left behind when he crossed the Atlantic. “Who
are you?” the ruffins demanded simultaneously of
Anthoin, ag-ain g-laring- at him in an unpleasant
manner.
But Anthoin continued his blood curdling-
laug-h and answered, “The Devil’s son-in-law, who
knows more of you than you know of him. You
don’t believe it,” he continued as they looked in-
credulous. “Then I’ll convince you.”
With that the fun beg-an. He hypnotized
one after the other of them, releasing- each in
time to see the antics of the other. Beg-in-
ning- with Bill Bush, he made him dance a jig-,
and afterward eat a newspaper, thinking- it was
cake; another, he made stand on his head in a
corner of the room; another became suddenly drunk
and wanted to kiss Bill Bush, who he supposed was
a pretty g*irl; the fourth imagined that he was
walking on tacks with his bare feet, and his
antics brought smiles to the faces of his fellow ser-
vants, although they were nearly paralyzed from
fright; the fifth and sixth fought with imaginary
foes and were nearly exhausted when Anthoin re-
leased them from his influence. “Now,” said he
as they stared at him in wonder, “Shall I start all
of you to shaking as though you had ague, and
leave you so, until I go and see your master and
return?”
The very thought of it made them shake, and
ZELDEK, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
Ill
very humbly they beg-ged him not to do so. “Very
well,” he said, “Then do not interfere with me
when I go to your master’s room, but always do
as I tell you, and all will be well.”
With that he arose from the chair in which he
had been seated and went toward the stair which
ascended from that room. Not a man attempted to
stop him, but instinctively drew farther away as he
passed. He had played a bold game and won; and
fate must determine the play of the next card.
Upon the stair he turned once to look at them, and
hissed in his demon like voice the one word, “Re-
member.”
While the funny scene was being enacted in
the room below, there was a scene of folly above.
Robert Bouman had made several futile
attempts to break the will of Marie. So he deter-
mined to punish her in his diabolical way before
forcing her into submission. Hid in the room was
a young negress, one of the most depraved of her
race, and a fit subject of the more depraved white
man, who the rope of Judge Lynch would soon
have put out of existence had he remained in
America. At a low call from her master the girl
rushed from her hiding place and struck the aston-
ished Marie full in the face. It was not a hard
blow, but it was enough to fire the blood in the
white girl’s veins, so she defended herself vigor-
ously when the negress attacked her again, which
she speedily did.
The villain’s eyes glistened as the fight pro-
gressed. The negress was strong, but Marie was
strong also. Sometimes they would clinch; and
Bouman would applaud as they broke away, the
112
ZKlvDKE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
negress tearing- the white g-irl’s clothing-, and Marie
with hands full of matted, wooly hair. The black
face was bleeding- from many scratches, but the
white face was not scarred.
It was evidently not the black g-irl’s intention
to bruise her antagonist as she had not struck her
after the first assault, but contented herself with
rending her clothing until the}^ were in tatters.
Piece after piece she tore away until here and there
the fair skin gleamed through the rags. Then the
fight became more interesting for the spectator.
His eyes shone more brilliantly and a flush of ex-
citement spread over his face. Once the fighters
clinched and fell to the floor together, each trying
to get the mastery over the other; Marie hitting,
scratching and biting; the other tearing and tear-
ing. During the scuffle, the negress succeeded in
removing her opponent’s shoes and tearing away her
hose, to the great delight of Bouman. When the
women regained their feet they stood facing each
other for a few minutes, panting for breath, and then
the fight began again. Poor Marie! In defending
herself as she thought, she only did as her coward-
ly abductor wished. Nothing could give him more
pleasure than to see part after part of her fair body
revealed; and when she stood as ere long she did,
with her body bare above the waist, and the proba-
bility of the few remaining shreds of clothing, be-
ing soon torn from her, he could scarcely restrain
himself from clasping her in his arms before the
negress had completed her work. He enjoyed his
folly, but little did he think what would be the
price he would pay for it.
zejldke, the devil’s daughter.
113
CHAPTER IV.
RETRIBI7TIOI1T-
As Henri Gailor neared the American’s Palace
he came up with an old man who was going- in the
same direction. He was so lost in his thoughts of
Marie and her peril, that he would have passed
without speaking, had not the old man called his
name. Looking up he recognized a friend of his
boyhood, whose wonderful stories told to him, when
he sat by his side on a rude bench near the old
man’s cottage door, stilled into his mind his first
longings for fame. It had been two years since
they had met and each had changed in many ways,
but they could not fail to recognize each other^ —
the love of the boy for the man and the man’s love
for the boy were still in their hearts and kept
their memory clear; through all of the changes
of each, the other could see his friend of
former years. It was a happy meeting mixed
with pain, for each had his trouble on that
day. The young man told of the kidnapping of
his betrothed and the old man listened with clench-
ed teeth — he hated the American with all the
hatred of age^ — nearly a year ago his grand
daughter, the last of his line, was abducted by the
villain, and never recovered from the treatment re-
ceived at his hands.
He told Henri of it and added, “Yesterday she
was buried by the side of her dead infant in the
village grave yard. “What do you intend to do?”
114
ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK.
he asked, wiping a tear from his eye.
“To the American?”
“Yes.”
Gailor half uncovered the handle of a knife
and a gesture told the rest.
“That’s not so easily done my young friend,”
said the old man. “When he stole my Jeannette
I went there (pointing to the palace) to shed his
heart’s blood. I knew the house like a book, I
watched them build it, I knew of a room that
could only be reached by a private stair and a
sliding pannel, and I supposed that this would be the
place in which he’d keep his victim. Not knowing
how to find the pannel I decided to use the stair.
But when I entered the room from which it leads I
was attacked by several men, and when I recovered
consciousness I was lying in yonder wood. When
I managed to crawl to my home my grand daugh-
ter was there, and the devil’s work had been
done.”
“Tell me how to find this stair,” cried Henri.
“And I promise you. I’ll break passed his hirelings
and avenge Jeannette as well as Marie.”
The old man loved the ardent youth and would
have warned him to stay away from the palace; but
the word revenge was too sweet to his ears and his
hatred of Robert Bouman wrangled in his bosom; so
he informed his young friend how to find the stairs
and the location of the room to which it lead, and
bid him, “Strike once for me.”
“I shall strike, never fear that!” whispered back
the young man as he glided away through the grove
to which they had come as they talked.
The old man muttered something to himself as
ZKI.DKK, thk devil’s daughter.
115
he turned away; and who shall sa}" if it was a
blessing- on Henri Gailor or a curse for Robert Bou-
man.
* * *
Marcus Anthoin paused before entering- the
infamous den of Robert Bouman; a noise in the
room below attracted his attention. From the
position he occupied he could not see in the room
he had just left; but stepping- noiselessly into a
niche he listened, with strained ears, to what seem-
ed to be the sig-ns of a strug-g-le.
And indeed it was a strug-g-le, though an un-
equal one — six men against a youth. Henri
Gailor had burst into the midst of the still fright-
ened ruffins, like an avalanche, he rushed passed
them with the speed of the antelope and had placed
a foot upon the first step of the stair when the
dastards attacked him. Superhuman power seem-
ed to have been given him, for he resisted their
attack like a young lion.
Grasping a chair he succeeded for a time in
keeping his assailants at bay. Rush after rush
they made, only to be beaten by the bold youth;
then the chair was wrenched from his grasp and
Bill Bush caught him by the throat, but with a cr}*
the tough fell back in the arms of his companions,
while the young man sprang up the stairs with a
bloody knife in his hand. The fate of their comrade
checked the rest of the attacking party for a
moment, and when they rallied sufficiently to pur-
sue, Henri was on the landing above.
It was just at this time that Mrs. Bouman, who
had formed the resolve to beard her husband in his
116
ZELDEE, THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER.
den and save the unfortunate girl if she could,
arrived at the sliding pannel and felt for the hidden
spring.
In the room Robert Bouman was in an ecticy
of delight. Marie was standing before him per-
fectly nude. At a word from him the negress was
retreating to her hiding place, while Marie was
blushing crimson as she realized for the first time
her condition.
“Oh my pretty one,’’ said the heartless wretch,
preparing to take her in his arms. “What would
vour lover of whom you spoke, say if he should see
you now?”
“He’d say, ‘take that you scoundrel,’ ” cried
Henri Gailor bursting through the door and hurry-
ing the already bloody knife in Bouman’s throat.
Then the pursuers arrived at the head of the
stairs and would have rushed upon the avenging
youth, had not an old man stepped in front of them,
pointing at the same time to the stairs and saying
as he did so, “Go.”
It was Marcus Anthoin, and filled with terror
the servants fled. They had looked into the room
and had seen their dying master, but had not seen
the beautiful necked girl. Henri Gailor, himself,
had caught but a glimpse of her as she was drawn
through an opening in the wall made by a sliding
pannel being moved by a queenly woman. Clara
Bouman had saved the girl from the profaning
eyes of the others, if not from those of her hus-
band.
“Young man,” said Anthoin entering the room,
“You have done a deed you may well be proud of.
It is to be hoped that you have rid the world of one
ZKI.DKE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
117
of the blots of humanity. A man whose aim in
life was no hig’her than that of the dogs of the
desert.”
“Rid the world of me?” Gurgled, rather than
spoke the wounded man, while blood gushed from
his mouth with every word. “No murderers you
have not done it, nor will you; but I’ll rid the
world of you.” He tried to rise as he spoke; but
the effort was too much for him and he fell back
exhausted.
Anthoin laughed his low demonish laugh as
he said, “You will, will you? But not yet.”
The laugh sounded so horrible in the room with
the dead or dying man that even Henri, who had
given the fatal stab, if fatal it should prove, shud-
dered and turned toward the door. But he summon-
ed courage to turn back and say, “I must thank you
Monsieur for your timely interference. But do you
think you are shielding a murderer?”
Marcus Anthoin had recognized the young man
as the one he had seen earlier in the day, and
remembered hearing one of the villagers say
he was quite a Parisian. Connecting this with
what, the mother of Marie had told him,
and having seen Clara when she drew
the blushing girl through the secret doorway, he
gave the following answer to the young man’s
query:
“No Monsieur not a murderer, but aretributor.
Who should avenge a fatherless girl’s wrongs if not
her lover? And in avenging hers, you have paid the
debt for many others. Go Monsieur and reclaim
your sweetheart from Mme. Bouman, who
is a lady inspite of her husband- I trust you will
118
ZKLDKK, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
find Mademoiselle as unsullied as when you last saw
her.”
The young- man left the room but was recalled
by Anthoin, who cautioned him to be on his g-uard,
or the rascally servants of Robert Bouman mig-ht
waylay him.
“I have thoug-ht of that, ’’replied Henri. “And
will be careful that they do not surprise me. I
think the fate of one of the number will make
them shy about attacking- me ag-ain.”
We may as well mention here, that the youth
was not molested by the servants and that he was
kindly received by Mrs. Bouman, who turned over
to his care his sweetheart Marie, who she had
dressed in some of her own apparel.
Robert Bouman died from the effect of his
wound, and Henri Gailor was arrested for his mur-
der. But the latter had made some influential friends
at Lyons and in Paris, who came to his assistance;
and as the American toug^hs were afraid to g-et
too near the officers of the law and could not be
found when wanted, he was acquitted after the
evidence of Clara and Marie had been heard.
A short while later, he and Marie were married.
On their wedding- morn the bride received a lovel}^
silver cup from Mrs. Bouman, who had sold the
American’s Palace, and left that day for America.
ZEI^DEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK,
X19
CHAPTER V.
X-OST, THE EIIIl-OSOPIlEn’'S STOISTE.
Althoug-h Marcus Anthoin had caught a
glimpse of the retreating negress, when the door
was so suddenlj' opened, he said nothing of her to
Gailor; but as soon as the young man had gone, he
unceremoniously dragged her from her hiding
place, and bid her go for a surgeon. The black
wench was nearly frightened out of her wits, and
was only too glad to leave the room. She descended
the stairs in a reckless manner, at the risk of break-
ing her neck, much to the amusement of Anthoin,
who, when left alone with the wounded man, deter-
mined to carry out the main object of his presence
there.
“The work must be done now or never,” he
said to himself; and turning to Bouman, he brought
his hypnotic power to bear upon him. It was easy to
control the man’s will, as he was so weak from the
loss of blood.
“Can you hear what I say?” asked Anthoin.
Bouman murmured, “Yes.”
“Have you the philosopher’s stone in your pos-
session?” was the next question.
Again Bouman answered, “Yes.”
“Where is it?” asked the interrogator.
“In the right hand pocket of my pants,” was •
the repl3^
A smile of satisfaction gleamed on the face of
Anthoin as he commanded, “Give it to me,”
120
ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
The wounded man could scarcely move, yet he
obeyed the other’s will. Slowly his hand sought
his pocket and brought forth a hard, smooth stone,
the size of a filbert, which Anthoin grasped eager-
ly as foot-steps were heard upon the stair.
“Forget what you have done,” he hurriedly com-
manded, releasing him from that influence, which
he possessed to so rare a degree, as the surgeon,
who had been hastily summoned by the men
servants to attend their wounded comrade, appeared
at the head of the steps, followed by the shaking
negress and two of the men, who were less timid
than the rest.
Robert Bouman lay where he had fallen, and
around him was a pool of blood. The surgeon
looked at him and shook his head.
“Place him on the bed,” he said. And the two
men servants obeyed. With their aid he disrobed
him, and then examined his wound.
“He has lost too much blood, he can’t live,” he
said, and stood back looking at the dying man.
The words seemed to reach, and revive Bouman.
He opened his eyes and regardless of the blood that
frothed from his mouth, he shrieked in his weak
voice, “I shall live, I wont die. No, I wont die.
I’m not ready to die. Fife is too sweet to talk of
dying; there is too much fun to be had. Where is
Marie? Did you men see her? Wasn’t she pretty?
Oh!” and here the blood drowned his words. He
paused a moment to rest, and then began again.
“Clara! Where is Clara? She use to come to my
room, but she doesn’t come any more. She doesn’t
love me now; I know I killed her love, for she did
love me once. I have sinned against her; and now
ZKI.DKE, the: DEVIIv’S daughter.
121
you say I am dying-. That is horrible; dying-,
dying, dying, dying.” And he repeated the word
until his voice died away in a whisper.
Suddenly he half raised himself in bed, and
cried, though his words were scarcely audible,
“Bring me those pants you have just removed from
me.” But no one moved to obey. “Don’t you
hear?” he cried a little louder, and he looked from
one to another. “Bring me those pants.”
Up to this time Marcus Anthoin had remained
standing where he was when the surgeon and the
servants entered, but now he came forward and
handed Bouman the article of apparel, for which he
asked.
The wounded man eagerly grasped the pants
with his weak hands, and hissed through his set
teeth, “You are the fellow that laughed at my
suffering, curse you ! You are glad I am dying;
but if I die. I’ll cheat the devil out of my soul. I
have something here that will frighten him
away.”
Then he began to search in the pockets. One
after the other he examined, and then over again
and again. A frightened look came on his face as
he turned the pockets inside-out, then not finding
what he wanted, he cried, and this time succeeded
in raising his voice to almost a screech, “Lost, the
philosopher’s stone, lost,” and he fell back dead.
The servants fled. The last words of their
dying master had filled them with alarm.
Marcus Anthoin followed, in a quiet, dignified
way; but with a smile curling the corners of his
mouth, as part of an old verse flashed through his
mind:
“Let him who treads on serpants heads,
Beware the deadly fangs.”
122
ze:i.de:e, the devie’s daughter.
CHAPTER VI.
SAVED ERO^ TI2E PIT.
The landlord of an inn, in a small villag-e in
Austria, pointed to a man, who was walking- away
from the hotel, in the direction of the mountains,
and said, “Do you see that young man? He is
going for a solitary ramble in the hills, but I have
no idea he will ever return.”
His quests looked up inquiring!}-, and one of
• them asked, “Why?”
“Well you see,” answered the proprietor, try-
ing to look wise, “Not many Americans have
stopped at my hotel; but of the few, two have act-
ed very strangly. One of them, nearly thirty
years ago, when I was a young man just starting
into business, came here and stayed for a week.
He was a peculiar man, with a strange expression
in his eyes, as though they were fixed on some par-
ticular object all the time; and his movements
were mechanical, like a man walking while asleep.
One morning, ’twas just such a day as this, he and
several others, all my guests, started with two
guides to visit the Devil’s Pit. He never came
back, the rest returned without him, he had done
what others had often been tempted to do, that is,
had thrown himself into the pit. And now this
young man, who arrived yesterday, acts like
that other of thirty years ago; and has wandered
away into the mountains. If he goes far, and g'ets
near the Devil’s Pit, I feel sure, the devil will claim
ZKlvDKE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
123
another soul.”
His listeners laug'hed at what they considered
the old landlord’s superstition, and some one
queried, “Did you lose anything- by the man not
returning-?”
“No,” was the reply. “His bag-g-ag-e was
worth much more than the amount of his bill.”
“And if this man does not come back, will you
lose an3"thing-?” asked another.
“No,” ag-ain replied the landlord. “He paid
me for a week in advance, as he had no security.”
“Then 3^ou will be the g-ainer if he doesn’t re-
turn,” laug-hed a third.
“Oh, but the poor man! The poor man!” said
the innkeeper as he turned away. “I would
rather he would live and I make less.” But, in his
mind he was counting- how much he would g-ain if
he never saw Dr. Anderson ag-ain. Such is the
avarice of the human heart.
Fifteen minutes later, acarriag-e, drawn by two
horses with .flanks flecked with foam, dashed up to
the door; and an old man with flushed cheeks,
leaned far out of it, calling- loudly, “Landlord!
Landlord!”
“Who calls?” asked the innkeeper, appearing-
at his door.
The old man did not answer the question, but
asked, “Are 3^ou the landlord?”
“I am,” was the reply.
The strang'er alig-hted from the carriag-e, and
came near the proprietor, eying- him narrowly as
thoug-h he would read his every thought. Then
he asked, “Have 3^ou an American, named William
Anderson, sta3dng at your hotel?
124
ZELDKE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
“William Anderson,” repeated the landlord,
while a smile curled his lip. “Let me see — er —
Why do you want to know?”
Ag-ain the old man disreg-arded the query, for
he comprehended at once that the doctor was there,
or had been lately. “Tell him that a friend wishes
to see him,” he said.
“I cannot,” replied the landlord, the smile on
his face broadening-.
“And why not, pray?”
“He is not here.”
“Then, where is he?”
“I do not know.”
“When did you see him last?” demanded the
old man, beg-inning- to g-et ang-ry.
“Twenty minutes ag-o,” was the cool reply.
“Then, where is he?”
“I have said, ‘I do not know.’ ”
The old man controlled his risihg- temper with
an effort, “Look here, my g-ood man, it is very
important that I should see Dr. Anderson as soon
as possible. If you can tell me anything- of him,
you will do him, as well as me, a g-reat favor.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” asked the
innkeeper, who was making himself appear ridicu-
lous by his efforts to be funny. He suddenly sober-
ed up then, and said, “Well I’ll tell you all I know.
Yesterday a man, g-iving- the name of Dr. William
Anderson, came here without any bag-g-ag-e, paid
me in advance, acted strang-ely all the time, walked
the floor of his room last nig-ht instead of retiring-,
refused to eat any breakfast this mornings and left
about twenty minutes ag-o for a walk in the moun-
tains. That is all I know of him.”
ZKLDEE, THE devil’s DAUGHTEK.
125
The strang-er thanked the landlord for his
information, and asked, “Did he g-o in the direc-
tion of the Devil’s Pit?”
The innkeeper was surprised, he had suppos-
ed the man to be a strang-er in that section; but he
spoke of the Devil’s Pit, as thoug-h he was familiar
with the surrounding- country.
“Not exactly,” the landlord replied. “But he
could easily find his wa}- there from the direction
he has taken.”
The old man waited for no more, but hastily
said a few words to his driver, and spring-ing- into
the carriag-e with the ag-ility of. a man of thirty, he
was driven rapidly away toward the hills.
But as they neared the mountains the speed of
the horses decreased — the road was more roug-h
every succeeding- rod. The old man leaned from
the carriag-e window and scanned the landmarks
as he passed. Finally he called to the driver to
stop; then he alig-hted and left the road by a nar-
row mountain path, and climbed and climbed. The
path was steep and dang-erous, but the old man
seemed to know his way, and ere long emerged
upon a small plateau. Turning to his left he
hastened across it, and soon was on the verge of
the Devil’s Pit. He gazed into the depths, expect-
ing to see the body of the doctor lying at the bot-
tom; but great was his joy to perceive only the
white bones of a skeleton. “All that is left of the
body of Merideth Kline,” he murmured as he turn-
ed away. Raising his head he started, for coming
toward him was a man with eyes set and walking
in a mechanical way. The old man’s hand twitch-
ed nervously as he placed it in his pocket. The
126
ZELDKE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER.
man he saw advancing was Dr. William Anderson
who was following the eyes of Zeldee, the Devil’s
Daughter.
He had not seen the old man, for he could not
see anything except those terrible e)’’es, they were
luring him on, as once they had lured Merideth
Kline. For weeks he had been following them —
from his home in Baltimore to New York, then
across the Atlantic to Liverpool, then to London,
from there to Havre and then to Paris, where he
remained a week or two, following the eyes da}^
after day through the streets of the* gay capital;
several times while there he came near to losing
his life under the wheels of passing carriages,
being rescued at the last moment by the
gens d’ arms; and every time the eyes of Zeldee
would flash with jealous disappointment. From
Paris he traveled across the continent to Viena and
from there to the village, of which we have spoken,
near the eastern border of the empire.
Not a moment’s rest had Zeldee given him, da}’
and night she had tormented him, by her form
when he slept and by her eyes when he awoke. He
had suffered much, and now she was leading him to
the end of it, on earth at least. If her plan suc-
ceeded the Devil’s Pit would claim another victim.
But there was a sentinal by the pit, an old
man with a keen eye, a clear mind and a strong
arm, standing, waiting with a hand in his pocket,
grasping a talisman. Nearer and nearer came the
condemned man, for Zeldee had condemned him,
nearer and nearer he advanced as the eyes retreat-
ed, nearer and still nearer, until one step more
w’ould have made him totter on the edge of the
ZKLDEK, THE devil’s DAUGHTER.
127
pit. But that step was never taken, some one
seized him by the arm and forced something* into
his hand. Immediately the eyes vanished and he
stag'gered back from the yawning* abyss; he felt
faint and weary and would probably have fallen
had not a strong* arm supported him.
After a few moments rest he looked at the
something* in his hand, it was hard and smooth,
about the size of a filbert. While he was wonder-
ing* what it was, a voice said in his ear, “It is the
philosopher’s stone.” The voice sounded familiar,
and looking* up, he found himself face to face with
Marcus Anthoin, who had saved him from the pit,
and robbed Zeldee of her reveng*e.
Our tale is nearly told. We might go on and
on, recording the events in the lives of Anderson
or Anthoin, either would be interesting, but we
are telling a tale of a soul, and that soul, “The
Devil’s Daughter.” And now that she has lost her
power over the other characters of our narrative
we can no more determine her movements and
hence must end the story. But before we do so,
for the benefit of the reader, we will tell in a brief
way, what we would tell in detail, if it was pro-
longed.
We would tell that Anthoin and Anderson left
Austria together and were travelling companions
until they reached Paris; here they separated, An-
thoin remaining in the City of Fashion and Ander-
son crossing to the British Isles and thence to the
United States of America.
We would tell that Mrs. Edna Flemming, the
gay and dashing young widow, had married a
rising* young lawyer of Baltimore, who was noted
128 ZKLDKK, the devil's daughter.
for his fastness and love of spending- money, three
months after her futile attempt to facinate Dr.
Anderson. And that they separated in a year,
she taking- to the stag-e and he — well — he doing-
about the same as ever.
We would tell that Aunt Dinah, the old
neg-ress, had returned to the elder Flemming-s,
saying- in her quaint way, ’‘Bless my soul, if I’s
g-wying- to lib wid a woman dat forgits Marse
Hug-0 in nine months.
We would tell, how Dr. Anderson arrived at
Baltimore in due time, to the g-reat delig-ht of his
many friends, who informed him of the report that
he had over drawn his account at the bank and then
skipped; and how he immediately repaired to the
bank and adjusted matters with the bank officials;
and then how he searched for the little lady, who
had captivated his heart, and who the fiery eyes of
Zeldee had driven from his mind, when he went on
his mad trip to Europe, but who he now remember-
ed ag-ain and loved more than ever.
And then we would tell, how sweet Gertrude .
reg-ained her health and streng-th breathing- the
northern Virg-inia country air; and how one morn-
ing- in the latter part of June, when the sun shone
brig-ht and hotly, scorching- the verdue and choking-
the music of the little song-sters in the trees back
into their throats, she and her young- cousin Annie,
from the farm house, wandered down a shady lane
and then by a path, they had made themselves
throug-h the woods, to a quiet nook on the banks of
a small riverlet. It was their favorite retreat on
those hot sultry morning-s. They could use the
greatest freedom there, for no one knew of the place
ZEIvDKE, the devil’s DAUGHTER.
129
except themselves or if they did, they did not care to
visit it. So the two g-irls enjoyed the beauty of the
shady, green spot all alone. It was bordered on
three sides by thick foliag’e, and in front by a deep
g’lassy bit of water that afforded an excellent bath-
ing- pool. A short way out the water tumbled, and
broke itself into foam upon the rocks, but in the
pool it was still, and often would the g-irls, feeling-
secure in their quiet retreat, lay aside their clothing-
and enjoy a dip in the cool stream.
But on the day of which we would tell, there
was an intruder upon their privacy, thoug-h the}-
knew it not, and he did not intend to intrude. It
was Dr. William Anderson, who was roaming- in
that section in hopes of stumbling- on a clue to the
whereabouts of the woman he loved, for he had
heard she was somewhere in the neig-hborhood.
He was not exactly in this shady dell, but was
where he could command a full view of it. When
he saw them appear his heart leaped with joy.
•‘Found at last,” he said to himself, and would
have g-one forward and have spoken to Gertrude,
but, like all unavowed lovers he was timid.
“Several months ag-o,” he thoug-ht, “She may
have had a passing- fancy forme, but it may be differ-
ent now, and I may be unwelcome; but I shall feast
my eyes upon her for awhile, she surely can’t object
to that.”
But he saw more than he barg-ained for.
The g-irls were warm with their walk and knew
the quickest way to cool themselves. So Anderson
watched them disrobe, they being- unconscious of
the eyes peering- at them, and plung-e into the
stream. He felt g-uilty of treason to the fair Ger-
130
ZEI.DEK, the DEViE’S daughter.
trude, the other he had scarcely seen, but he was
fascinated and could not tear himself from the spot.
Who would not have done was he did, with Youth
and Beauty g’amboling’ before him like two nymphs
of the wood? Finally with a mig’hty effort, he
tore away and crept cautiously through the under-
growth.
When, a year later, he married Gertrude, for we
would tell of his marrying her, he told her of his
adventures with Zeldee, and after giving a descrip-
tion of her he added:
“She was indeed beautiful, but her brazen looks
and immodesty outweighed the beauty.”
“I imagine it did,” she said.
He smiled at her words, and asked, “Did you
ever bathe in a rivelet near where you stayed in
Virginia, a year ago?”
A blush was her answer and she asked, “Why?”
“Because, I saw you once,” he said. And then
he told her all about it.
Her blush deepened while he talked and when
he finished, she shook her dainty fist at him and
said. “You naughty, naughty man. How dared
you do it?”
“How dared I?” he asked, speaking her words.
“It was enough to make me dare anything; for ”
and his voice became low and tender. “You were
much fairer than Zeldee,”
TWO YEARS AFTER.
CHAPTER 1.
THE EE-flLTH OE l^ARCTJS AHTHOIIT-
Deak George: —
One year agfo I seated myself, with pen in hand,
to put on paper the events in my life that pertain
to the Devil’s daug-hter; but instead, I wrote a let-
ter to Marcus Anthoin. Had I not done so, my
story would have g’one forth to the public, and when
too late, I perhaps, would have reg'retted it. Now
the story will never be written, at least not by me.
I told you in, a former letter, of Zeldee’s attempt-
ed reveng-e, and how the old man, whose acquaint-
ance we formed on that nig-ht of wind and snow in
your Southern city, had saved my life. Well, I
corresponded with him at intervals after his return
to America and found him an interesting- corre-
spondent, thoug-h given a little to melancholy,
sometimes writing an entire letter in a wierd, pa-
thetic strain.
I do not know why I wrote to him instead of
writing* my tale, unless, in thinking of him I could
not resist the temptation of dropping him a few lines.
132
ZELDEE, the DEViE’S DAUGHTER.
Letter writing-, as you know, is mj principal occu-
pation now; for with that marvelous stone in my
possession it is not necessary for me to do anything-
to earn my daily bread. So I do not follow my pro-
fession any long-er, but live in blissful idleness, en-
joying the companionship of my wife. In reply to
my letter Anthoin wrote me the following:
“My Dear William: —
It was an agreeable surprise to receive a letter
from you after three months of silence. Believe
me when I sa}^ I have thought of you night and
day during that time. So you are going to write a
tale of your adventures with Zeldee? I know it will
be interesting, but I have one favor to ask of you if
you still intend to do so, that is, that you will wait
just one year before you begin it. I know when
you have written it you will have it published, and
for reasons, which you already know, I would not
like everything you would have to tell, to be known
to the public while I am living — one year from now
all will be over; one year from now the grim reaper,
Death, will cut me down, gather me in his bundle of
sheaves and carry me away; then you can tell your
story without causing me any inconvenience, and if
men praise me I will know it, and if they condemn
me I will know it not.
My health has been failing rapidly since last I
wrote to you, and I am now a physical as well as a
mental wreck. But nevertheless, I am doing what
I have asked you not to do, writing a tale of some
of our adventures. I do not intend that it shall get
in print, however, but will address it to you so that
you will get it when I am dead. That will be one
ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
133
year from now. With the last streng-th of my tired
soul I will visit you in your room, when the end
comes, you may surely expect me. So from now till
then g-ood-bye. I shall not write to you ag'ain
until I write my last letter.
Yours truly,
Marcus Anthoin.”
It has been a year since that letter was written,
and it makes me sad as I copy it here. I have writ-
ten to him since then, but have received no reply.
How he’ll visit me when the end comes I know no
more than what he said in his letter.
^ ^ ^
The hour has passed, Marcus Anthoin is no more.
As I penned the words, “Than what he said in his
letter,” a strang-e sensation came over me. To
shake the feeling- off I raised my head, and there,
standing- in the center of the room, was the one of
whom I had been writing-. He was g-reatly chang--
ed, but yet I knew him, his face was pale and wan,
his hair was more white, if that could be, than when
last I saw him, and his eyes were sunken and had a
set glassy stare in them. He opened his thin,
bloodless lips and spoke:
“Dr. Anderson,” he said, “I am going on that
long, long journey and may never return, good bye.”
I tried to speak, but could not utter a word. I
arose from my chair and extended my hand, then
my light which had been burning low, suddenly
went out, and my power of speech returned.
“Marcus Anthoin,” I cried, but there was no
reply. “Marcus Anthoin,” again I called, but still
no reply. I struck a match, relighted the
134
ZKLDKK, the DKViE’S DAUGHTER.
lamp and looked about the room, there was no
one in it except mj wife and myself. She was
sweetly sleeping*, with her fair face resting on her
pillow, as she had been before my light went out;
I examined the doors and windows, but they were
all securely fastened as I had barred them; then I
looked at the floor, in the centre of the room, where
I had seen him stand, and on the carpet I saw a
small drop of blood. I gazed at it for a moment
and then I knew how Marcus Anthoin had visited
me when he was dead.
Dear George: —
I begin again after three days. This morning’s
mail brought me two letters and a paper in a pack-
age, together with a batch of manuscript. I
glanced at the paper first and my eyes fell upon a
marked paragraph headed — “Found Dead in His
Room” — it read as follows:
“Laurence Mayo, an eccentric old man was
found dead in his room at No.
St. early this morning. When found his head
was resting on a table where he had been writ-
ing. By his head was a bundle of papers and a
letter, both addressed to Dr. William Anderson, of
Baltimore, Md. The coroner was called, but deem-
ed an inquest unnecessary, as it was evident, the man
died of old. age.”
The letters were, one from the man in whose
house Marcus Anthoin, or Laurence Mayo, as he call-
ed himself, roomed, describing the position in which
the dead man was found, and stating that he for-
warded therewith the bundle of papers and the
letter addressed to me, and also sent me a daily
ZEIvDEK, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
135
paper g-iving- an account of Mayo’s death. The
other was the one from poor Anthoin. ’It was writ-
ten just before his death. I will copy it for your
beneiit. It ran: —
“Dear Dr. Anderson:
The time has come. When you receive this I
will be no long-er on earth. Even now the icy hand
of death is resting on my brow; so what I have to
write I must write briefly. I have sealed the manu-
script of the autobiog-raphy I have been writing-,
and addressed it to you; in writing- your story, if
you still intend to write it, use what part of it you
think best and destroy the remainder. I wish you
much success; and if your story is ever published I
hope the readers will condemn me no more than I
deserve. As I promised in my letter of a year ag-o,
I will visit you, in your room, ere my weary soul is
caug-ht by that irresistible power and carried to the
Valley of the Shadow of Death. This may be my
last journey throug-h the darkness. My name may
have been called while I was truant from my post, if
so, it will never be called ag-ain, and I will be no
more on earth. Then a long-, long- farewell. Eter-
nity is a long- time Doctor. Eternity is a long- time.
— Yours in Death, Marcus Anthoin.”
I could not help but shed a tear as I finished
reading. He, who I had once called a murderer,
had proved a true friend, and now he was dead. I
read his autobiography, and through it all ran a
strain of melancholy so natural with the man; but
as I have determined not to write my stor3% I will
preserve it as a keepsake from him.
My Dear George, I have written quite enough,
136
ZELDEK, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER.
and will be glad to receive a letter from you at an
early date. You must forgive me for letting poor
Anthoin’s sadness touch my letter, but I am sure
what I have written will interest you. With best
wishes. I remain, Sincerely yours,
WiELiAM Anderson.
CHAPTER II.
ZEI-DSE, THE EEVII-’’S EiLUaUTEK-
BEING AN EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV.
GEO. HOLLAND.
June 6th, 18 — . Today I received a letter from
my esteemed friend Dr. William Anderson; and
ever since reading it, I have been thinking of the
queer old man who was his subject. I had the
pleasure, I suppose I may call it a pleasure, of see-
ing and talking to this old man on one occasion;
that was between two and three years ago, but I re-
member the event as distinctly as though it was yes-
terday. Anderson was with me at the time, and
through a long, stormy night in midwinter we list-
ened to one of the most marvelous tales of which I
have ever heard. It made a deep impression on me
at the time, but the feeling soon wore off, and I
looked upon the narrator as a mad-man, and his tale
but the raving of one.
A few weeks later the news reached me, that
the old man had been arrested, tried and convicted
ZELDEE, the DEViE’S DAUGHTEK.
137
of the murder of his wife; and then a short while
later, I heard of his mysterious escape from prison
on the eve of the execution day. But still I be-
lieved him mad, until my friend, the doctor, a few
months after his return home, wrote of his experi-
ence with the wonderful Zeldee. Then I beg-an to
realize that there was some truth in what Marcus
Anthoin had told; for William Anderson is too bril-
liant a man to be deluded by a phantom. Another
thing- that influenced- me in this direction was that
it had influenced Anderson to accept the Christian
belief, whereas, before he had denied it.
After perusing- the letter, I received today, I
fell to thinking of what might or might not be, and
almost wished I had the knowledge of the other
world that Anthoin claimed to have. With these
thoughts in my mind, I left home late this after-
noon and wandered down town. In my abstraction
I boarded the first electric car that I saw, it chanced
to be a red one, and ere my lit of musing ended, I
found myself at the Avondale Park.
That is a lovely place, with its large cool
springs, lovely flowers and shady mountain side. I
have often been there and always enjoyed its grand-
eur. Today it seemed more beautiful than ever.
As I sat on a bench musing, my attention was at-
tracted to a fat, chubby woman with a pleasant face,
who was playing with a pretty little child, who she
called “Ernardine.” By the side of the lady, and
playing with the child also, stood a poetic looking
man. He had light, sandy hair and mustache; and
his face was one of those good, honest ones that I
always love to look at. It was easy too see, by
their happiness, that it was a well mated man and
138
ZKlvDEE, The devil’s daughter.
wife, with their only child. As I watched them, a
couple also man and wife, I presume, sauntered up to
them. I did not particularly notice but one of the
new arrivals. She was a tall, dark woman with
black, searching- eyes, that made me feel, when I
looked at them, like I was looking- into the eyes of a
serpent. The fat, chubby woman instinctively
drew her child closer to her side; and when she
spoke, there was a sound of loathing- in her voice.
The dark woman made some lig-ht remark and
laug-hed, and to me it seemed I had heard that laug-h
before. I wondered then, and I wonder now, if the
soul that tormented Anthoin and Anderson had
broken away from hell ag-ain, to inhabit a body from
which a soul had fled, and if this dark, dang-erous
looking- w’om an, was “Zeldee, the Devil’s Daug- liter. ”
The End.
m
I
"'NT nnoy rec»q
AUG 10 1898
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